My cheek is pale, and hers is warm with bloom,
And we are left in that old carven room,
And she begins to sing;
The open casement quivers in the breeze,
And one large musk-rose leans its dewy grace
Into the chamber, like a happy face,
And round it swim the bees;
I know not what I said—what she replied
Lives, like eternal sunshine, in my heart;