"Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the

white;

Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;

Nor winks the gold fin in the porph’ry font:

The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

And slips into the bosom of the lake:

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

Into my bosom and be lost in me.

"