To a Lady Playing the Harp
Thy tones are silver melted into sound,And as I dreamI see no walls around,But seem to hearA gondolierSing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream.
Italian skies—that I have never seen—I see above.(Ah, play again, my queen;Thy fingers whiteFly swift and lightAnd weave for me the golden mesh of love.)
Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyesAnd soft dark hair,‘T is thou that mak’st my skiesSo swift to changeTo far and strange:But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair.
Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in theeAs one who drownsIn floods of melody.Still in thy artGive me this part,Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns.