And passing the blossoming China trees,
Come in with its fragrance fine.
Make way—make way—let the cool wind play
O’er the pale and dying brow;
For she loves the breath of the closing day,
And the day is closing now.
O! see! how her mild dark eye grows bright,
Like the eye of the gentle fawn!
That eye will sleep in death this night,
Ere another morning’s dawn.