Three Songs

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long [light]1 shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory:
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
[Blow, bugle]2; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
[Blow, bugle;]2 answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
[And]2 [answer, echoes]3, dying, dying, dying.

  There is sweet music here that softer falls
    Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
  Or night-dews on still waters between walls
    Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
  Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
    Than tir'd eyelids upon tirèd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
        Here are cool mosses deep,
        And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
  And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

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