Pure silver, in thy lonely palace, love!—
Now, wake thee! for the sea-bird is aloof,
In solitude, below the starry roof:
And on its dewy plume there is a light
Of palest splendor, o’er the blessed night.
Thy spirit, Agathè!—and yet thou art
Beside me, and my solitary heart
Is throbbing near to thee: I must not feel
The sweet notes of thy holy music steal
Into my feverous and burning brain,—