A pale poetic face and passed away
From the urned terrace and the fountains' spray.
And that fair lady in dim drapery,
High in the old red tower—did she sigh
To see him fading through the purple night,
His lute faint-twinkling in th' uncertain light,
Then lost amid the rose-pleached avenues,
Dark walls of ivy, hedged with low-clipped yews?
And left alone with but the whispering rush
Of fountains and the evening's hyacinth hush,