THE IMPROVISATRICE.
35
I threw me on a couch to rest,
Loosely I flung my long black hair;
It seemed to soothe my troubled breast
To drink the quiet evening air.
I looked upon the deep-blue sky,
And it was all hope and harmony.
Afar I could see the Arno’s stream
Glorying in the clear moonbeam;
And the shadowy city met my gaze,
Like the dim memory of other days;
And the distant wood’s black coronal
Was like oblivion, that covereth all.
I know not why my soul felt sad;
I touch’d my lute,—it would not waken,
Save to old songs of sorrowing—
Of hope betrayed—of hearts forsaken:
