To Isadore

I. Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
 Whose shadows fall before
 Thy lowly cottage door--
 Under the lilac's tremulous leaves--
 Within thy snowy clasped hand
 The purple flowers it bore.
 Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
 Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land--
 Enchantress of the flowery wand,
 Most beauteous Isadore!

II. And when I bade the dream
 Upon thy spirit flee,
 Thy violet eyes to me
 Upturned, did overflowing seem
 With the deep, untold delight
 Of Love's serenity;
 Thy classic brow, like lilies white
 And pale as the Imperial Night
 Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
 Enthralled my soul to thee!


III. Ah! ever I behold
 Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
 Blue as the languid skies
 Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;
 Now strangely clear thine image grows,
 And olden memories
 Are startled from their long repose
 Like shadows on the silent snows
 When suddenly the night-wind blows
 Where quiet moonlight lies.


IV. Like music heard in dreams,
 Like strains of harps unknown,
 Of birds for ever flown,--
 Audible as the voice of streams
 That murmur in some leafy dell,
 I hear thy gentlest tone,
 And Silence cometh with her spell
 Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
 When tremulous in dreams I tell
 My love to thee alone!

V. In every valley heard,
 Floating from tree to tree,
 Less beautiful to me,
 The music of the radiant bird,
 Than artless accents such as thine
 Whose echoes never flee!
 Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:--
 For uttered in thy tones benign
 (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
 Doth seem a melody!