While he of the lute and the laurel
For thee has forgotten the throng,
And builds on thy fairy-like beauty
A future of sigh and of song.
Ay, listen, but as unto music
The wild wind is bearing away,
As sweet as the sea-shells at evening,
But far too unearthly to stay.
For the love-dream that haunts the young poet
Is coloured too much by his mind—
A fabric of fancy and falsehood,
But never for lasting designed.
For he lives but in beauty—his visions
Inspire with their passion his strain;
And the spirit so quick at impression
Was never meant long to retain.
But another is passing before me—
Oh, pause, let me gaze on thy brow;
I've seen thee, fair lady, thrice lovely,
But never so lovely as now.
Thou art changed since those earlier numbers,
When thou wert a vision to me;
And copies from some fairest picture,
My heroines were painted from thee.
Thy cheek with its sunset of crimson,
Like a rose crushed on ivory, bears
Its sunny smile still, but a softness
Is now in the radiance it wears.
A halo of love is around thee,
It is as if nature had willed
That thy happiness should be affection,
And thy destiny now is fulfilled.
