"Thy beauty, like a star
Whose life is light,
Shines on me from afar.
And on the night.
"Each midnight blossom bends
With sweetest weight,
And to thy casement sends
Its fragrant freight.
"Each, air that faintly curls
About thy nest
Its daring pinion furls
Within thy breast.
"The night is spread for thee,
The heavens are wide,
And the dark earth's mystery
Is magnified.
"For thee the garden waits,
The hours delay,
The fountains toss their jets
Of shimmering spray.
"Then leave thy dim delight
In dreams above,
Come forth, and crown the night
With her I love!"
She listened, but did not lift her head or suffer the change of a fold;
then there came the tinkle of the strings that embalmed the tune, and
the singer's steps grew soundless as he left the street. A new phantasm
crept upon me. What right had any other man to sing to her his
love-songs? Did she not live, was not her beauty created, her soul
given, for me? Did not the very breath she drew belong to me? My voice,
hoarse and husky, disturbed the stillness, my eyes flamed on her.
"Do you love that man who sang?" I murmured.
"Signor, I love you," she said.
Then we were silent as before, but she stood no longer alone and
opposite. One passionate step, an outstretched arm, and her head on my
bosom, my lips bent to hers.
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