noon
The Aeolian harp , with plaintive wail , Sighs responsive to each gale ; Its chords are strung ` mid branching trees , And echo to ev'ry passing breeze ; Gently they vibrate through the grove , Touching the chords of life and love , Mixed with the sounds that round me float . I hear , sweet bird , thy mellow note ; For as in sunshine , as in rain , Thou comest to cheer me with thy strain . Few friends so kind to come each day , To sing the tedious hours away . But pleasant visions vanish soon , And the bright sun grows dim at noon . The pleasant gales forget to play , And dark and fearful grows the day . The waving island takes its flight , Far from the stretch of human sight ; High in ` mid air it seems to rise , Dissolving , mixing with the skies . But ah , it leaves no vacant place , For grisly phantoms take its place .