Now the last drop, both sweet and fierce,
Of passion's essence is distilled,
Ah, need we grieve?—For there is scarce
A grayness that dreams cannot gild.

The pools of art and memory keep
Reflections of our fallen towers,
And every princess there asleep,
Whom once we kissed, is always ours.

We have strange visions, and we bear
Their faint light on our brows and cheeks;
And when the silence grows more rare
It seems a lovely phantom speaks;

And shadows which at evening come
Have grace not only for the eye,
And sometime water gushes from
Fountains that have long been dry.