Lay deep, and heavy drops—but not of rain—
On the dim violets by its marble bed,
And the pale-shining water-lily’s head.
Sad is that legend’s truth.—A fair girl met
One whom she loved, by this lone temple’s spring.
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set,
And eve’s low voice in whispers woke, to bring
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair,
With the blue heaven of Italy above,
And citron-odours dying on the air,