It greeted me she was alone, within her favourite bower,
And bade me welcome if I there could loiter twilight's hour!
The first star rose above the west, and I was on my way
To where, amid the orange-grove, her jasmine alcove lay;
I marvelled somewhat as I came, such disarray I found—
The flowers had fallen from her hair, her lute was on the ground;
Herself flung on the violets, sweet watchers, fit to keep
A perfumed atmosphere of sighs around her summer sleep;
One ivory foot was bare, so small, the violets o'er it spread,
And one white arm made dove-like nest to shield that lovely head.
A vellum tablet filled her hand—oh well I knew the line!
For there were written words of love—the tender words were mine.
Now sweet, but not too long, love mine, thy gentle sleeping be;
My heart beat when I saw those lines—perhaps she dreams of me.
