Death nothing is but cooling night,
And life is nought but sultry day;
Darkness draws nigh, I slumber
Wearied by day’s bright light.
Over my bed ariseth a tree,
There sings the youthful nightingale;
She sings of love exulting,
In dreams ’tis heard by me.
88.
“Say, where is thy beauteous mistress,
“Whom thou sangest in the hour
“When thy heart was pierced so strangely
“By the flames of magic power?”
All those flames are now extinguish’d,
And my heart is cold and weary,
And this book’s the urn that holdeth
My love’s ashes sad and dreary.
89.
Full long have I my head tormented
With ceaseless thinking, day and night;
And yet thy darling eyes compel me
To love thee, in my own despite.
Now stand I, where thine eyes are gleaming,
Charm’d by their sweet expressive light;
That I should love again thus deeply
I scarcely can believe aright.