To Isadore

I     Beneath the vine-clad eaves,     Whose shadows fall before     Thy lowly cottage door     Under the lilacs tremulous leaves,     Within thy snowy clasped hand     The purple flowers it bore.     Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,     Like queenly nymphs from Fairy-land,     Enchantress of the flowery wand,     Most beauteous Isadore! II     And when I bade the dream     Upon thy spirit flee,     Thy violet eyes to me     Upturned, did overflowing seem     With the deep, untold delight     Of Loves serenity;     Thy classic brow, like lilies white     And pale as the Imperial Night     Upon her throne, with stars bedight,     Enthralled my soul to thee! III     Ah! ever I behold     Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,     Blue as the languid skies     Hung with the sunsets fringe of gold;     Now strangely clear thine image grows,     And olden memories     Are startled from their long repose     Like shadows on the silent snows     When suddenly the night-wind blows     Where quiet moonlight ties. IV     Like music heard in dreams,     Like strains of harps unknown,     Of birds forever flown     Audible as the voice of streams     That murmur in some leafy dell,     I hear thy gentlest tone,     And Silence cometh with her spell     Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,     When tremulous in dreams I tell     My love to thee alone! V     In every valley heard,     Floating from tree to tree,     Less beautiful to, me,     The music of the radiant bird,     Than artless accents such as thine     Whose echoes never flee!     Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:     For uttered in thy tones benign     (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine     Doth seem a melody!