Ah Sylvia, dear nymph of gardens green,

Too soon we’ve squandered all the sweets of night;

Now in the east a rim of gold is seen—

That scimitar which is a lover’s blight;

What pain to have you rise from ‘twixt my arms

To stretch and yawn and shake your sleepy head,

And so to reawaken all your charms—

But in so doing, heighten partings’ dread.

A brief respite with you beneath the stars

Seems but a gift that is pure heaven sent,

No glare of day could ere this image mar

Though memory such may seem as yearnings dreamt.

Daylong I’ll tread as though upon the air,

For fain at dusk, I’ll hold sweet Sylvia fair.