BRING me my lute, the sunlight fades; The evening breezes, soft and low, From the far South begin to blow. Here will I watch the dying day: Here will I watch the pallid skies Flush with a myriad changing dyes. What joy to see the fairy moon Cradled in folds of rosy light, The baby sovereign of the night. What joy to hear, from far away, The rolling mill-stream roaring go Between his banks of ice and snow; Or from the distant mountain’s side, To hear the murmuring wind, that brings Promise of Spring between its wings. Here at my window will I sit; Here, will I let the peaceful hour Try on my heart her aËry power. This happy season sings of Thee, Where’er I turn my careless eyes Thine image will before them rise; Not as thou art in human form; I cannot shape thy phantom so, The fleeting shadows come and go. Thy face is fair with roseate bloom— I lift my eyes and lo! the sun Reddens the cloud he looks upon— Thine eyes with deepening azure smile— Beyond the hills a line of blue Recalls the sunlit morning’s dew. On either side thy thoughtful brow Thy golden hair is floating free— Yon golden cloud is fair to see— As floating from the purple West, Its glory slowly gathers dun And fadeth with the fading sun. Ah! was it all an idle dream? A fleeting sunset fed my thought, And all this cloudy vision wrought? Or does the maiden somewhere bloom Whom Nature cannot paint aright Her beauty is so passing bright? |