Are redolent of sleep, as I

Am redolent of thee and thine

Enthralling love, my Adeline.

But list, O list!—so soft and low

Thy lover's voice to night shall flow

That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem

My words the music of a dream.

Thus, while no single sound too rude,

Upon thy slumber shall intrude,

Our thoughts, our souls—O God above!

In every deed shall mingle, love.

(1833)