Its grace is sweet and dear to me,
And light its tender shade will be
Upon the green earth where I lie...
One night we were alone and by her side
I sat, she drooped her head and as a-dream
Over the spinet let her fair hand glide.
So soft the murmur was it scarce could seem
More than a zephyr whispering in the reeds,
Soft moving lest the birds, warm-nested there
Should hear and wake. The soft, voluptuous air