This handful of passion of a bygone day,
which flows like running water soft and light
Beneath the cool and tranquil fountain,
At dead of night
In pine-clad mountain,
As vague as sighs,
but you
Should e’er be true.
The moon is still so bright;
Beyond the hills the lamps shed the same light,
The sky besprinkled with star upon star,
But I do not know where you are.
It seems you hang above like dreams.
You ask the dark night to give back your word,
But its echo is heard
And buried though unseen
Deep, deep in the ravine.