She hovers round my dreams!
Like the soft early beams,
When day-light through my lattice streams,
Thoughts of her beauty greet my waking hours;
Like fragrance stolen by zephyr from the flowers,
Or odors from the spice-trees pressed by showers
Which fall in summer time
In that delicious clime,—
Told in melodious chime
By Eastern poets—where the bulbul sings