  Low in the eastern sky Is set thy glancing eye; And though its gracious light Ne’er riseth to my sight, Yet every star that climbs Above the gnarlÈd limbs Of yonder hill, Conveys thy gentle will. Believe I knew thy thought, And that the zephyrs brought As mine they bear to you; That some attentive cloud Did pause amid the crowd Over my head, While gentle things were said. Believe the thrushes sung, And that the flower-bells rung, That herbs exhaled their scent, And beasts knew what was meant, The trees a welcome waved, And lakes their margins laved, When thy free mind To my retreat did wind. It was a summer eve, The air did gently heave While yet a low-hung cloud Thy eastern skies did shroud; The lightning’s silent gleam, Startling my drowsy dream, Seemed like the flash Under thy dark eyelash. From yonder comes the sun, But soon his course is run, Rising to trivial day Along his dusty way; But thy noontide completes Only auroral heats, Nor ever sets, To hasten vain regrets. Direct thy pensive eye Into the western sky; And when the evening star Does glimmer from afar Upon the mountain line, Accept it for a sign That I am near, And thinking of thee here. I’ll be thy Mercury, Thou Cytherea to me, Distinguished by thy face The earth shall learn my place; As near beneath thy light Will I outwear the night, With mingled ray Leading the westward way. Still will I strive to be As if thou wert with me; Whatever path I take, It shall be for thy sake, Of gentle slope and wide, As thou wert by my side, Without a root To trip thy gentle foot. I’ll walk with gentle pace, And choose the smoothest place, And careful dip the oar, And shun the winding shore, And gently steer my boat Where water-lilies float, And cardinal flowers Stand in their sylvan bowers. |
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