In those high towers half lost in rock and brake?
Where is she? Sits she lonely in her bower?
If she is pensive, is it for my sake?
Perchance she joins the dance with other maids:
With whom? By whose are those white fingers pressed?
Perhaps for sleep her tresses she unbraids
While moonbeams fill the chamber of her rest.
Tell her, O wind! that I have laid my head
Here, on the rough stem of the prostrate pine
Which leans across the dried-up torrent's bed,