On crimson wings of passionate desire
I traversed gardens of a tropic clime
To pluck love's strangest blossoms, and my lyre
Tuning, I caught each heart-throb in a rhyme.

But now thy lashes burn me, and my head
Is all confused with bitter love of thee;
Yet never have I sung thy praise, or said
How very pleasant was thy love to me.

I hush the songs that rise in me by day,
That rise by day and in the depth of night,
Lest—as a tiny bird that flies away
By some child's laughter taken with affright—

At sound of lute-strings stirring in the wind,
Love, half afraid, unfold his pinions fleet,
And only leave upon the lawn behind
The perfumed imprint of his sandalled feet.