The air that brought the sound upon the gale.
There is a sweet low tone of voice and lute,
And, oh! Love's eyes are lightening,—she has caught
A shadow, and the wave of a white plume
Amid those trees, and, with her hair flung back,
She listens to the song:—
Lady sweet, this is the hour
Time's loveliest to me;
For now my lute may breathe of love,
And it may breathe to thee.
All day I sought some trace of thine,
But never likeness found;
But still to be where thou hast been
Is treading fairy ground.
I watched the blushing evening fling
Her crimson o'er the skies,—
I saw it gradual fade, and saw,
At length, the young moon rise.
And very long it seemed to me
Before her zenith hour,
When sleep and shade conspire to hide
My passage to thy bower.
