MILD evening's dewy azure sleeps softly in your eyes,
And darkly brown and beautiful thy tresses down-
ward fall,
Like a gushing of bright waters where the forest
shadow lies,
Or the purple vine, deep clustering round some
stately marble hall.

And thy soft and speaking lip, dear, is like some coral
bower,
Lying far away, beneath the translucent Indian wave,
Where a goddess, ocean-born, with a voice of magic
power,
And her lute's divinest music, lulls the tempest in
his cave.