Edward Bulwer-Lytton

“ This hand would lead thee, listen—a deep vale,
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,
Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate!
A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon
We’d sit beneath the arching vines and wonder
Why earth could be unhappy, while the heavens
Still left us youth and love! ”