When will you have not a glance to give
Of the love in whose lustre my glances live?
When, O my darling, your fathomless eyes
Have drawn all the azure out of the skies:
Now I gaze and I gaze till they dare not rise.
When will you find not a single vow
Of the myriads and myriads you lavish now?
When your voice has gurgled the last sweet note
That was meant from the nightingales to float:
Now I whisper it, whisper it dumb in your throat.
When will you love me no more, no more,
And my happy, happy dream be o'er?
When no rose is red, and no skies are blue,
And no nightingale sings the whole year through,
Then my heart may have no love for you.
XII.
It glideth and glideth away:
She sees there her own beauty, gleaming
Through shadow and ripple and spray.
