I’d hie to the home where the roses are dreaming,
And Hope, from those eyes, on my spirit is beaming;
I’d choose the still moonlight, thro’ vine-lattice stealing,
The face that I love, in its beauty revealing.
I’d list to the voice that is sweeter by far
Than the tones of the lute or the heartless guitar.
The accents of love all my spirit are filling
With rapture subduing, yet blissful and thrilling.
Alas! the kind minutes, unkindly are speeding,
For joy or for sorrow, unstaying, unheeding,