Where closed are the cicala's wings,
And no leaf stirs, nor wild bird sings,
Lull'd by the dusk air, warm and sweet;
Then kneeling, dearest, at thy feet,
Thy face the only sight I see,
Thy voice the only sound I hear,
While midnight's moonlit mystery
Seems the full heart's enchanted sphere.
Then should thy own low whisper tell
Those ancient songs thou lov'st so well;
Tales of old battles which are known
To me but from thy lip alone;
Dearer than if the bard again
Could sound his own imperial strain.
Ah, folly! of such dreaming hours,
That are not, that may not be ours.
Farewell! thou far Ionian isle
That lighted for my love awhile,
A sweet enchantment formed to fade,
Of darker days my life is made;
Embittering my reality
With dreams of all that may not be.
Such fairy fancies when they part,
But leave behind a withered heart;
Dreaming o'er all it hath not known;
Alas! and is such heart mine own?
