Of old, on her terrace at evening 
...not here...in some long-gone kingdom 
O, folded close to her breast!... 

--our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness 
(was it trees? or a shadowy passion 
the pain of an old-world longing 
that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?) 
--the gloom of the forest 
blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies 
that shut in our lonely world. 

...not here...in some long-gone world... 

close-lock'd in that passionate arm-clasp 
no word did we utter, we stirr'd not: 
the silence of Death, or of Love... 
only, round and over us 
that tearless infinite yearning 
and the Night with her spread wings rustling 
folding us with the stars. 

...not here...in some long-gone kingdom 
of old, on her terrace at evening 
O, folded close to her heart!...