And I dream as its leaflets float down at my side
Of the rose-tinted cheek of my sweet sister Lide.
The south wind is blowing, and up from the wood,
Where the streamlet is flowing, in charmed solitude,
Swells in low, liquid numbers the waterfall’s song,
As its chanting wave slumbers, or dashes along;
And the clear silvery tone of that murmuring tide
Seems the love-laden voice of my sweet sister Lide.
The soft stars are twinkling in beauty above,
And the dew-drops besprinkling their blossoms of love,