The moon has set, and the Pleiades; it is midnight, and time passes, and I sleep alone.

I would not think to touch the sky with two arms

Love, like a mountain-wind upon an oak, falling upon me, shakes me leaf and bough.

Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.

Mere air, these words, but delicious to hear.

The moon has set In a bank of jet That fringes the Western sky, The pleiads seven Have sunk from heaven And the midnight hurries by; My hopes are flown And, alas! alone On my weary couch I lie.

Love shook my heart/ Like the wind on the mountain/ Troubling the oak-trees