SONNET XXXVII

Through vales of Thrace, Peneus’ stream is flowing Past legend-peopled hillsides to the deep; From Paestum’s rose-hung plains soft winds are blowing; The halls of Amber lie in haunted sleep; The Cornish sea is silent with the Summer That once bore Iseult from the Irish shore; And lovely lone Fiesole is dumber Than when Lorenzo’s garland-guests it wore. This eve for us the emerald clearness glowing Over the stream, where late was ruddy might, Whispers a wonder, dumb to other knowing,— Known but to you, the silence, and the night. Our boat drifts breathless; the last light is dying; Stars, dawn, shall find us here together lying.