Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/113

Rh

That rose is fading in the noon, And I shall not outlive the rose! Come, let me lean upon thy breast, My last, best place of happiest rest! Once more let me breathe thy sighs— Look once more in those watching eyes! Oh! but for thee, and grief of thine, And parting, I should not repine! It is deep happiness to die, Yet live in Love's dear memory. Thou wilt remember me,—my name Is linked with beauty and with fame. The summer airs, the summer sky, The soothing spell of Music's sigh,— Stars in their poetry of night, The silver silence of moonlight,—