The gallant serenaders
And their fair listeners
Exchange sweet nothings
Beneath singing boughs.
Tirsis is there, Aminte is there,
And tedious Clitandre too,
And Damis who for many a cruel maid
Writes many a tender song.
Their short silken doublets,
Their long trailing gowns,
Their elegance, their joy,
And their soft blue shadows
Whirl madly in the rapture
Of a grey and roseate moon,
And the mandolin jangles on
In the shivering breeze.
Calm in the twilight
Cast by loft boughs,
Let us steep our love
In this deep quiet.
Let us mingle our souls, our hearts
And our enraptured senses
With the hazy languor
Of arbutus and pine.
Half-close your eyes,
Fold your arms across your breast,
And from your heart now lulled to rest
Banish forever all intent.
Let us both succumb
To the gentle and lulling breeze
That comes to ruffle at your feet
The waves of russet grass.
And when, solemnly, evening
Falls from the black oaks,
That voice of our despair,
The nightingale shall sing.
Mystical barcarolles,
Songs without words,
Sweet, since your eyes,
The colour of skies,
Since your voice,
Strange vision that unsettles
And troubles the horizon
Of my reason,
Since the rare scent
Of your swan-like pallor,
And since the candour
Of your fragrance,
Ah! since your whole being –
Pervading music,
Haloes of departed angels,
Sounds and scents –
Has in sweet cadences
And correspondences
Led on my receptive heart –
So be it!