The night has made the apple tree a scent,
A motion in my ear, as if delight
Ever so softly trembled in decline.
Though, where you are, deceitful hills take flight
Into the glare that permeates each line
Between trees and their shadows, I define
Your absence by my thought’s experiment‚
For it is you I love and not my sight.
Yet still I feel as though the tenderness
Were mine of those who, sceptical of sense,
Yearned in the dark for nothing, those of slow
And melancholy aria, intense
And shaking with desire. They did not know
Whom rapture may address and therefore show
Desire protesting what their minds possess‚
An anguish without knowledge or defense.