Thou wast all to me, love,

For which my soul did pine —

A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine;

All wreathed around about with flowers,

And the flowers they all were mine.

 

But the dream it could not last,

And the star of life did rise

Only to be overcast,

A voice from out the Future cries,

“Onward!” while o'er the Past

My spirit hovering lies.

 

Like the murmur of the solemn seas

To sands on the sea-shore,

A voice is whispering unto me,

“The day is past”; and never more

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar.

 

And all mine hours are trances,

And all my nights are dreams

Of where thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams,

In the maze of flashing dances,

By the slow Italian streams.