Where is the summer with the golden sun?
That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth,
For me alone the laughing day is done.
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
Far in my own bright land.

Where are the temples through the dim wood shining,
The festal dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes?
Far in my own bright land.

Where are the vineyards with their joyous throngs,
The red grape pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs?
And the pine forests and the olive shades?
Far in my own bright land.

Where the deep haunting grots, the laurel bowers,
The dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's dream?
Oh! that my life were as a southern flower's!
I might not languish thus by these chill streams
Far from my own bright land!