I dream'd that I walk'd in Italy, When the day was going down, By a water that silently wander'd by Thro' an old dim-lighted town, Till I came to a palace fair to see. Wide open the windows were. My love at a window sat; and she Beckon'd me up the stair. . . . When I came to the little rose-colour'd room, From the curtains out flew a bat. The window was open: and in the gloom My love at the window sat. She sat with her guitar on her knee, But she was not singing a note, For someone had drawn (ah, who could it be?) A knife across her throat. |