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Poem	Thy tones are silver melted into sound, And as I dream I see no walls around, But seem to hear A gondolier Sing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream. Italian skies—that I have never seen— I see above. (Ah, play again, my queen; Thy fingers white Fly swift and light And weave for me the golden mesh of love.) Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyes And soft dark hair, 'T is thou that mak'st my skies So swift to change To far and strange: But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair. Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in thee As one who drowns In floods of melody. Still in thy art Give me this part, Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns.
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