Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light,
Fair, fleeting sister of the mournful night!
As in impatient hope he stands apart,
Companioned only by his beating heart,
And with an eager fancy oft beholds
The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds
Flit through the grove, and gain the open mead,
True to the hour by loving hearts agreed!
At length she comes. The evening's holy grace
Mellows the glory of her radiant face;
The curtain of that daylight, faint and pale,
Hangs round her like the shading of a veil;
As turning with a bashful timid thought,
From the dear welcome she herself hath sought,
Her shadowy profile drawn against the sky,
Cheats while it charms his fond adoring eye.