I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,
And in thy breath his pinion dips,
Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,
And faints upon thy sighing lips:
I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep
That used to shade thy looks of light;
And why those eyes their vigil keep
When other suns are sunk in night?
And I will say--her angel breast
Has never throbbed with guilty sting;
Her bosom is the sweetest nest
Where Slumber could repose his wing!
And I will say--her cheeks that flush,
Like vernal roses in the sun,
Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush,
Except for what her eyes have done!
Then tell me, why, thou child of air!
Does slumber from her eyelids rove?
What is her heart's impassioned care?
Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis love.