XVIII.
Upon the far horizon
Like a picture of the mist,
Appears the towered city
By the twilight shadows kissed.
The moist, soft breezes ripple
Our boat's wake gray and dark,
With mournful measured cadence
The boatman rows my bark.
The sun from clouds outshining,
Lights up once more the coast.
The very spot it shows me
Where she I loved was lost.