94
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
I thought of her not with that deep,
Intensest memory love will keep
More tenderly than life. To me
She was but as a dream of home,—
One of those calm and pleasant thoughts
That o'er the soldier's spirit come;
Remembering him, when battle lours,
Of twilight walks and fireside hours.
I came to thy bright Florence when
The task of blood was done:
I saw thee! Had I lived before?
Oh, no! my life but then begun.
Ay, by that blush! the summer rose
Has not more luxury of light!
Ay, by those eyes! whose language is
Like what the clear stars speak at night,
