Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/82

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The breath of flowers, the faint perfume Of the green pineleaf's early bloom; And murmurs from the music hung Ever the woodland boughs among; His couch of moss, his pillow flowers, Dreaming away the listless hours— Those dreams so vague, those dreams so vain, Yet iron links in lover's chain— Prince leant: the solitude Suited such visionary mood; For love hath delicate delights,— The silence of the summer nights; The leaves and buds, whose languid sighs Seem like the echo of his own; The wind which like a lute note dies; The shadow by the branches thrown,