Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

Gird your hearts with silent fortitude, Suffering, yet hoping all things.

There is in all this cold and hollow world, No fount of deep, strong,deathless love ;save that within a mother's heart

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine, The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

Though the past haunt me as a spirit, I do not ask to forget.

The opening and the folding flowers, that laugh to the summer's day.