Smouldered and glittered in the plain.
"Sometimes it was a wandering wind,
Sometimes the fragrance of the pine,
Sometimes the thought how others sinned,
That turned her sweet blood into wine.
"Sometimes she heard a serenade,
Complaining, sweetly, far away.
She said, ‘A young man woos a maid’;
And dreamt of love till break of day.
. . . . .