The convent gray, the still, blue skies,
The mountain with its bordering wood;—
Still do they stand as then they stood,
Hovering like spirits fair and frail
Against the dazzle of the sail;
The red lips part, the faces glow,
As long ago, so long ago!
The convent gray, the still, blue skies,
The mountain with its bordering wood;—
Still do they stand as then they stood,
Hovering like spirits fair and frail
Against the dazzle of the sail;
The red lips part, the faces glow,
As long ago, so long ago!