Oh, never light of moon was shed
Upon a maid’s more timid tread;
And never star of heaven shone
On face more fair to look upon.
Hark! was not that a whisper light?
A step—a movement—yet so slight,
That silence holds its breath in vain
To catch that fleeting sound again.
Well may’st thou start, lone, timid dove,
To-night he comes not to thy love.