Leaning against the window, rapt in thought,
Of what sweet past do thy soft brown eyes dream
That so expressionlessly sweet they seem?
Or what great image hath thy fancy wrought
To wonder round and gaze at? or doth aught
Of legend move thee, o'er which eyes oft stream,
Telling of some sweet saint who rose supreme
From martyrdom to God, with glory fraught?

Or art thou listening to the gondolier,
Whose song is dying o'er the water wide,
Trying the faintly-sounding tune to hear
Before it mixes with the rippling tide?
Or dost thou think of one that comes not near,
And whose false heart, in thine, thine own doth chide?