Passionate visions, quick light and shade—
Such was that high-born Italian maid!
And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell
Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell,
Or as the sounds in Æolian strings,
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings;
There, ever there, with the life enshrined,
Waiting the call of the faintest wind.
Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea,
In the city’s hour of moonlight glee—