ON THE BRIDGE.
N the Arno's bridge I stood, To watch the feverish dayDie upon her couch of cloud, Curtained soft in silvery grey;Sultry, sultry grew the night,Dark except the cold moon-light;And her garments dropt in gold, And floated on the river,While the shadows vainly tried The rippling folds to sever;Still I mused upon the night,Dark except that gift of light.
Then the distant hills of Lucca, Armoured knights as sentries stood—Their broad shields glist'ning as the rills Of light float down in wayward mood;And the heavy languid nightWas dark except that gift of light.
