Basking there in the genial heat,
South of my sheltering vineyard wall,
Strolling, I dream in my lov'd retreat,—
The smile of the sun-god over all.
Far too early a shadow dark,
Cast by the neighboring mountain's crest,
Stealthily creeps across the park,
Bringing a chill from the sombre west.
Little by little my sunlit space
Shrinks to a narrowing path of light;
Further and further with dread I trace
The sure advance of approaching night.
Soon will arrive its twilight pall;
Then, as the potent change is felt,
The fountain's drops will cease to fall
And feathery films refuse to melt.
But still in the solar warmth I wait,
The hand of my lov'd one clasped in mine;
Is that a tear? It is growing late,
And she asks how long the sun will shine.
ON THE PROMENADE
O joyous idler in the sun,
In pity slacken here thy pace!
A lad, whose course is nearly run,
Is watching thee with wistful face.
The glow of health upon thy cheek,
The youthful ardor in thy gait,
Appear to him, so frail and weak,
The bitter irony of Fate.
Thou art to him the vision fair
Of all he once had hoped to be;
What wonder, then, that in despair
His longing glances follow thee?
Let not the gulf too deep appear
Between thy fortune and his own!
Thou didst not see that falling tear,
Nor hear his low, half-stifled moan.