I

The wild dawn flares o'er wood and vale, O'er all the world she used to love: Low on her couch it finds her pale, The dawn that breaks with flame above. Her lute, that once was all her care, To which her love had often sung, Upon a damask-covered chair Now lies neglected and unstrung. Back from her face her hair she throws, Her heavy hair that falls and slips, Then, rising, to the casement goes With languid eyes and pallid lips.