THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
9
On fair Clemenza went, her mood
Deepening with the deep solitude;
That gentle sadness which is wrought
With more of tenderness, than thought,
When memory like the moonlight flings
A softness o'er its wanderings,—
When hope, a holiday to keep
Folds up its rainbow wings for sleep,
And the heart, like a bark at rest,
Scarce heaves within the tranquil breast,—
When thoughts and dreams, that moment's birth
Take hues which are not of the earth.
But she was waken'd from her dream
By sudden flashing of the wave;
The cypress first conceal'd the stream,
Then oped, as if a spirit gave,
