THE IMPROVISATRICE.
49
I owned not to myself I loved,—
No word of love Lorenzo breathed;
But I lived in a magic ring,
Of every pleasant flower wreathed.
A bright blue was on the sky,
A sweeter breath in music’s sigh;
The orange shrubs all seemed to bear
Fruit more rich, and buds more fair.
There was a glory on the noon,
A beauty in the crescent moon,
A lulling stillness in the night,
A feeling in the pale starlight.
There was a charmed note on the wind,
A spell in Poetry’s deep store—
Heart-uttered words, passionate thoughts,
Which I had never marked before.
