Your star-eyed hopes around me glow
Bright as the plumage of a train
Of pilgrim-angels furled below.
We are together: Ila, see
The light of heaven’s own heraldry—
And hark!—the evening breeze is here;
His silver lips no longer mute,—
He breathes—a minstrel-worshipper—
An avè from his leafy lute:
Shall we not join him? Dearest, press