Listen, I who love thee well Have travelled far, and secrets tell; Cold the moon that gleams thine eyes, Yet beneath her further skies Rests, for thee, a paradise. I have plucked a flower in proof, Frail, in earthly light, forsooth: See, invisible it lies In this palm: now veil thine eyes: Quaff its fragrancies! Would indeed my throat had skill To breathe thee music, faint and still -- Music learned in dreaming deep In those lands, from Echo's lip. . . . 'Twould lull thy soul to sleep. |