Was it a distant flute That breathed, and now is mute Who that lost soul men call the nightingale, In bosky coverts hidden, Filling with sudden passion all the vale? Oh, chant again the tale, And call on her whose name returns, unbidden, A longing and a dream, Adelaida! For while the sprinkled stars Sparkle, and wink, and gleam, Adelaida! Darkness and perfume cleave the unknown bars Between the enamored heart and thee, And thou and I are free, Adelaida! Less than a name, a melody, art thou, A hope, a haunting vow! The passion-cloven Spirit of thy Beethoven Claimed with less ardor than I claim thee now, Adelaida! Take form, at last: from these o'erbending branches Descend, or from the grass arise I scarce shall see thine eyes, Or know what blush the shadow stanches; But all my being's empty urn shall be Filled with thy mystery! |