She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre

  The rosy rays of evening fell,

As if to feed with their soft fire

  The soul within that trembling shell.

The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,

  And played around those lips that sung

And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,

  If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burned,

  Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;

And, when to gaze again I turned,

  The minstrel's form seemed fading too.

As if her light and heaven's were one,

  The glory all had left that frame;

And from her glimmering lips the tone,

  As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought

  That he and all he loved must part?

Filled with this fear, I flew and caught

  The fading image to my heart—

And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?

  "Oh light of youth's resplendent day!

"Must ye then lose your golden bloom,

  "And thus, like sunshine, die away?"