When Through The Piazzetta. (Venetian Air.)

A poem by Thomas Moore

When thro' the Piazzetta
Night breathes her cool air,
Then, dearest Ninetta,
I'll come to thee there.
Beneath thy mask shrouded,
I'll know thee afar,
As Love knows tho' clouded
His own Evening Star.

In garb, then, resembling
Some gay gondolier,
I'll whisper thee, trembling,
"Our bark, love, is near:
"Now, now, while there hover
"Those clouds o'er the moon,
"'Twill waft thee safe over
"Yon silent Lagoon."