Francisca walks in the shadow of night,
But it is not to gaze on the heavenly light -
But if she sits in her garden bower,
'Tis not for the sake of its blowing flower.
She listens - but not for the nightingale -
Though her ear expects as soft a tale.
There winds a step through the foliage thick,
And her cheek grows pale, and her heart beats quick.
There whispers a voice thro' the rustling leaves;
A moment more and they shall meet -
'Tis past - her lover's at her feet.
More verses by George Gordon Byron
- Don Juan: Canto The Fourteenth
- To Anne
- To Anne: Oh, Say Not, Sweet Anne
- On Jordan's Banks
- Don Juan: Canto The Second