Of you, the magnet of my heart,
The vision of my nightly slumber,
Of all my thoughts the central part,
And source of fancies without number.
The stars are not more dear to Night,
To scented winds the bursting blossom,
To Day its floods of golden light,
Than thou art, gentlest, to my bosom.
The beauty of the North is thine,
Its auburn tress, its eye of azure,