High in the heavens its lantern hung,
And round the orbit of my dream
The softly shining planet swung:
I woke, - is it an omen this? -
And felt upon my lips a kiss.
She is the planet, my true-love,
That hovered o'er me in my sleep,
Like fortune-stars that from above
Over their favorites vigil keep.
I am a sculptor, and I prize
The Parian whiteness of her throat;
A student of the stars, and note
The heavenly radiance of her eyes.
My guiding star, should thy soft beams
Be quenched in gloom and disappear,
No other light could e'er illume
The darkness of my pathway here.