Lord Byron


Francisca walks in the shadow of night, But it is not to gaze on the heavenly light – But if she sits in her garden bower, ‘Tis not for the sake of its blowing flower. She listens – but not for the nightingale – Though her ear expects as soft a tale. There winds a step through the foliage thick, And her cheek grows pale, and her heart beats quick. There whispers a voice thro’ the rustling leaves; A moment more and they shall meet – ‘Tis past – her lover’s at her feet.

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