How lovely is the silvery, deepening twilight!
There needs but some faint sound, in melody
Stealing upon the silence—some fond whisper
Which makes us sigh for quiet in return,
To muse upon its meaning!
(A strain of music without, which continues for some moments.)
Enter Foscarini.
Foscarini.
She listens like a goddess, fresh from heaven,
To airs that breathe nought heavenly save her name.