The blackened skies have reached the garden walk;
Yet my poor heart tonight cannot be not the restless…
The lights that have been failed, the lost of sounds talk,
Are they the remnants of the dream in sadness?

Oh, how sad it was, the satin of her dress,
Her breast was very white, among the straps black fair!
How sorry I was then to see her eyes distressed,
Her hands in snowy gloves, resigned as to a prayer!

And how much her soul was mercilessly dispersed,
Among the tearless, cold-hearted and unsettled!
Like sounds, bred in silence, were there spelled –
The starry sounds – lilac, bright, and gentle!

Like at an anguish’s flesh, from broken a lace,
In dazzling light of moon, with gentleness and fire,
Roll dawn amethysts into the dewy mire,
And die without trace.