Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/107

Rh

Thy first look was a fever spell!— Thy first word was an oracle Which seal'd my fate! I worshipped thee, My beautiful, bright deity! Worshipped thee as a sacred thing Of Genius' high imagining;— But loved thee for thy sweet revealing Of woman's own most gentle feeling. I might have broken from the chain Thy power, thy glory round me flung! But never might forget thy blush— The smile which on thy sweet lips hung! I lived but in thy sight! One night From thy hair fell a myrtle blossom; It was a relic that breathed of thee:— Look! it has withered in my bosom!