She sits beside the low window,

In the pleasant evening-time,

With her face turned to the sunset,

Reading a book of rhyme.

And the wine-light of the sunset,

Stolen into the dainty nook,

Where she sits in her sacred beauty,

Lies crimson on the book.

O beautiful eyes so tender,

Brown eyes so tender and dear,

Did you leave your reading a moment

Just now, as I passed near?

Maybe, ’tis the sunset flushes

Her features, so lily-pale;

Maybe, ’tis the lover’s passion,

She reads of in the tale.

O darling, and darling, and darling,

If I dared to trust my thought;

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If I dared to believe what I must not,

Believe what no one ought,––

We would read together the poem

Of the Love that never died,

The passionate, world-old story

Come true, and glorified.