I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,

  And in thy breath his pinion dips,

Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,

  And faints upon thy sighing lips:

I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep

  That used to shade thy looks of light;

And why those eyes their vigil keep

  When other suns are sunk in night?

And I will say—her angel breast

  Has never throbbed with guilty sting;

Her bosom is the sweetest nest

  Where Slumber could repose his wing!

And I will say—her cheeks that flush,

  Like vernal roses in the sun,

Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush,

  Except for what her eyes have done!

Then tell me, why, thou child of air!

  Does slumber from her eyelids rove?

What is her heart's impassioned care?

  Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis love.