Iii

Dim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence, The night-song silvers of a dreaming bird; And with it borne, faint on a breeze-blown essence, The rainy whisper of a fountain’s heard-- As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word.

How long, my love, my bliss! How long must I await With night--that all impatience is-- Thy greeting at the gate, And at the gate thy kiss? How long, my love, my bliss!