Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/31

 A low song from a lonely dove, A song such exiles sing and love, Breathing of fresh fields, summer skies,— Not to be breathed of but in sighs! But fairer smile and sweeter sigh Are near when step is nigh! With eyes dark as the midnight time, Yet lighted like a summer clime With sun-rays from within; yet now Lingers a cloud upon that brow,— Though never lovelier brow was given To Houri of an Eastern heaven! Her eye is dwelling on that bower, As every leaf and every flower Were being numbered in her heart;— There are no looks like those which dwell