noon
My own dear love ! Mel . A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls , from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage musical with birds , Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon We 'd sit beneath the arching vines , and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy , while the Heavens Still left us youth and love ! We 'd have no friends That were not lovers ; no ambition , save To excel them all in love ; we 'd read no books That were not tales of love -- that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! And when night came , amidst the breathless Heavens We 'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps , And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves and music from sweet lutes , And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I ' the midst of roses ! -- Dost thou like the picture ?