O soft, caressing sound, more sweet than scent Of violets in woody hollows! Tone As amorous as the ring-dove’s tender moan Beneath the spreading forest’s leafy tent; What mystery of earth or air hath lent Thee that bewitching music, where the drone Of Summer bees in dewy buds new blown With trembling, fainting melody is blent? What master did conceive thee, as the sound Most fit to woo his lady from her rest, What wakeful maiden in thy wooing found The passion of her lover first exprest, And from her silken pillows, beauty-crowned, Stept forth and smiled on him who loved her best? It is the vesper hour, and in yon aisle Where fainting incense clouds the heavy air My lady’s kneeling at her e…
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