Th’ expected voice; my quick heart throbb’d too soon.
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam
Through my lone lattice pour’d, I sit and dream
Of summer lands afar, where holy love,
Under the vine or in the citron grove,
May breathe from terror.
Now the night grows deep,
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.
I hear my veins beat. Hark! a bell’s slow chime!