I dream'd that I walk'd in Italy,
When the day was going down,
By a water that silently wander'd by
Thro' an old dim-lighted town,

Till I came to a palace fair to see.
Wide open the windows were.
My love at a window sat; and she
Beckon'd me up the stair. . . .

When I came to the little rose-colour'd room,
From the curtains out flew a bat.
The window was open: and in the gloom
My love at the window sat.

She sat with her guitar on her knee,
But she was not singing a note,
For someone had drawn (ah, who could it be?)
A knife across her throat.