Lean from the lattice, lady bright;
Trifle no more with the pensive guitar
For the sun in an ebbing ocean of light
Is anchored, to wait for the evening star.
And yonder the palace-windows blaze:
Such radiant gold from the west they win,
That you say, in a sort of pretty amaze,
"Surely, there must be a sun within!"
Over your head a rose-vine clings,
Deftly the long stems climb and lace;
And a full, red bud in the west wind swings,
Brushing the rose of your beautiful face.
Lean from the lattice, lady sweet;
The wind is blowing the bud apart;
And one is coming adown the street,
To open to you his princely heart.
But your lips are touched by a scornful smile:
"What is he, but a boy?" you say;
"If I bent to him for a little while,
It was only the whim of a lady gay."
Trifle again with the vibrant guitar:
But the boy you scorn has reached your side,
And, looking away at the evening star,
You drop for a moment your sceptre of pride.
The star is leaning out of the skies,
To hearken to passionate words and low:
"I love"—and "I love," your heart replies,
Whether your lips assent or no.
What if you turn his fear to joy?
Yield him the heart he dares implore?
Lean on the swelling breast of the boy,
And love him and love him for evermore?
Your cheeks are hot, O lady proud!
They prate of the pained heart's rapid throes;.
But over the star there sweeps a cloud,
And you—are crushing the half-blown rose.
Fine is the pride of the steady eye,
Of the curving lip, and the stately head;
Measured and clear, with never a sigh,
Are the words of the cruel falsehood said.
Now close the shutters and light the lamp;
Recklessly toy with the merry guitar:
The wind of the west is cool and damp,
And—what care you for the evening star?
And yet—and yet, O lady fair,
If yonder palace you think to win,
With its windows blazing with gold, beware
How you fancy there is a sun within!
Else, pierced by a life-long pain, I ween,
Robbed of all love-light, cheated of joy,
Even you, lady, will pine to lean
On the noble, burning heart of a boy.
