Gently, as roses die, the day declines;
On the charmed air there is a hush the while;
And delicate are the twilight-tints that smile
Upon the summits of the Apennines.
The moon is up; and o'er the warm wave shines
A faery bridge of light, whose beams beguile
The fancy to some far and fortunate isle,
Which love in solitude unlonely shrines.
The blue night of Italian summer glooms
Around us; over the crystalline swell
I gaze on Genoa's spires and palace-domes:
City of cities, the superb, farewell!
The beautiful, in nature's bloom, is thine;
And Art hath made it deathless and divine!
