Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/224

Rh

Grove of dark cypress, when noontide is flinging Its radiance of light, thou shalt then be my shrine; I'll listen the song which the wild dove is singing, And catch from its sweetness a lesson for mine.

And when the red sunset at even is dying, I'll watch the last blush as it fades on the wave; While the wind, through the shells in its low music sighing, Will seem like the anthem peal'd over its grave.

And when the bright stars which I worship are beaming, And writing in beauty and fate on the sky, Then, mine own lute, be the hour for thy dreaming, And the night-flowers will open and echo thy sigh.