And something in its odor speaks
Of dark brown eyes, and arms of snow,
And rainbow smiles on sunset cheeks--
The maid I saw a month ago.
I waited for her many a day,
On the dear ground where first we met;
I sought her up and down the way,
And all in vain I seek her yet.
Syringa, naught your odor tells,
Or whispers so I cannot hear;
Speak out, and tell me where she dwells,
In perfume accents, loud and clear.
Shake out the music of your speech,
In quavers of delicious breath;
The conscious melody may teach
A lover where love wandereth.
If so you speak, with smile and look,
You will not wither, but endure;
And in my heart's still open book,
Keep your white petals ever pure.
If so you speak, upon her breast
You yet may rest, nor sigh afar;
But in the moonlight's silver dressed,
Seem 'gainst your heaven the evening star.
