BY THE ARNO
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HE oleander on the wallGrows crimson in the dawning light,Though the grey shadows of the nightLie yet on Florence like a pall. The dew is bright upon the hill,And bright the blossoms overhead,But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,The little Attic song is still. Only the leaves are gently stirredBy the soft breathing of the gale,And in the almond-scented valeThe lonely nightingale is heard. The day will make thee silent soon,O nightingale sing on for love!While yet upon the shadowy groveSplinter the arrows of the moon. Before across the silent lawnIn sea-green vest the morning steals,And to love’s frightened eyes revealsThe long white fingers of the dawn Fast climbing up the eastern skyTo grasp and slay the shuddering night,All careless of my heart’s delight,Or if the nightingale should die. IMPRESSIONS DE THÉÂTRE
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