Sonnet III

When e'en the inner voice of thought is still,
And does some sacred chant my soul endear,
'Tis then I call to thee; but will you hear?
Will from the floating mists your form distil?

Will night its tender power of wonder rear
And your great, peaceful eyes their light fulfil,
That of the rays that bygone hours spill
To me as in a dream you do appear?

But come to me... come near, come still more near...
Smiling you bend to gaze into my face
While does your sigh gentle love make clear.

Upon my eyes I feel you lashes' trace,
O love, for ever lost, for ever dear,
To know the aching thrill of your embrace!

(1879, Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu)