Poems . ds yet dripping the last jewel saved from thewreck. None heeds us, beloved Irene ! None will mark if we linger or all the mad masks in yon revel, There is not an ear or an eye, —Not one, — that will gaze or will listen ; And, save the small star in the skyWhich, to light us, so softly doth glisten, There is none will jjursue us, Irene. 0 love me, 0 .save me, I die !I am thine, 0 be mine, 0 beloved ! Fly with me, Irene, Irene ! The moon drops : the morning is gondola waits by the garden And fleet is my own gondolier ) What the Ladj Irene Ricasoli, By Mnemo
Poems . ds yet dripping the last jewel saved from thewreck. None heeds us, beloved Irene ! None will mark if we linger or all the mad masks in yon revel, There is not an ear or an eye, —Not one, — that will gaze or will listen ; And, save the small star in the skyWhich, to light us, so softly doth glisten, There is none will jjursue us, Irene. 0 love me, 0 .save me, I die !I am thine, 0 be mine, 0 beloved ! Fly with me, Irene, Irene ! The moon drops : the morning is gondola waits by the garden And fleet is my own gondolier ) What the Ladj Irene Ricasoli, By Mnemosynes statue in stone,Where she leaned, neath the blackcypress-tree, To the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi Replied then, it never was known, now, it never will be. But the moon hath been melted inmorning :And the lamps in the windows aredead :And the gay cavaliers from the the ladies they laughed with, arefled;And the music is husht in the viols :And the minstrels, and dancers, aregone ;. iii::aaiaiEi::!.i!3iieBaiaB IN ITALY. 187 And the nightingales now in the garden, If the bride have dark hair, From singing have ceased, one by one : And an olive brow, But the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi Give her this gold bracelet; — Still stands, where he last stood, alone. Come and let me know. Neath the black cypress-tree, near the water, If the bride have bright hair, By Mnemosynes statue in stone. And a brow of snow. In the great canal there Oer his spirit was silence and midnight, Quick the portrait throw : In his breast was the calm of despair. He took, with a smile, from a casket And you U merely give her A single soft curl of gold hair, — This poor faded flower. A wavj warm curl of gold liair, Thanks ! now leave your stylet And into the black-bosomed water With me for an hour. He flung it athwart the black stair. The skies they were changing above him ; You re my friend: whatever The dawn, it came cold on tiie air; I ask you now to do, He drew from his bosom a kerchie
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookpublisherbosto, bookyear1900
