THE IMPROVISATRICE.
13
In aged temple, ruined shrine,
And its green wreath of ivy twine;—
In every change of earth and sky,
Breathed the deep soul of poesy.
As yet I loved not;—but each wild,
High thought I nourished raised a pyre
For love to light; and lighted once
By love, it would be like the fire
The burning lava floods that dwell
In Etna’s cave unquenchable.
One evening in the lovely June,
Over the Arno’s waters gliding,
I had been watching the fair moon
Amid her court of white clouds riding;—
