THE IMPROVISATRICE.
91
The fountain, in the midst, was fraught
With rich hues from the sunset caught;—
And the first song came from the dove,
Nestling in the shrub alcove.
But why pause on my happiness?—
Another step was with mine there!
Another sigh than mine made sweet
With its dear breath the scented air!
Lorenzo! could it be my hand
That now was trembling in thine own?
Lorenzo! could it be mine ear
That drank the music of thy tone?
We sat us by a lattice, where
Came in the soothing evening breeze,
Rich with the gifts of early flowers,
And the soft wind-lute's symphonies.
