THE IMPROVISATRICE.
11
It was not song that taught me love,
But it was love that taught me song.
If song be past, and hope undone,
And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame;
It is thy work, thou faithless one!
But, no!—I will not name thy name!
Sun-god, lute, wreath are vowed to thee!
Long be their light upon my grave—
My glorious grave—yon deep blue sea:
I shall sleep calm beneath its wave!
Florence! with what idolatry
I ’ve lingered in thy radiant halls,
Worshipping, till my dizzy eye
Grew dim with gazing on those walls,
