Eve, warm and sad, as the last light shimmers, 
And the pallid flowers sigh in the soft air;
Love, found at last, through her calm soul glimmers:
Perfumes wafting, breezes doling scents new and fair.

Ah, chaste as morn, there she walks on, smiling;
In the evening-hallowed grove, with a pale hand,
Plays on her lute, thus the dear time whiling,
Playing softly, virgin music; love's sweet command.

So as he comes, and her mild eyes darken,
And the tender shadows glide into veiled night;
All thrills for him, and his strained ears hearken;
Music swaying, music dying, Love's end's delight.