Leans ’gainst the sail, which alone all that is needed performs. 
Forward presses the heart of each seamen, like colours and streamers;

Backward one only is seen, mournfully fix’d near the mast,
While on the blue tinged mountains, which fast are receding, he gazeth,

And as they sink in the sea, joy from his bosom departs. 
Vanish’d from thee, too, oh Dora, is now the vessel that robs thee

Of thine Alexis, thy friend,—­ah, thy betrothed as well! 
Thou, too, art after me gazing in vain.  Our hearts are still throbbing,

Though, for each other, yet ah! ’gainst one another no more. 
Oh, thou single moment, wherein I found life! thou outweighest

Every day which had else coldly from memory fled. 
’Twas in that moment alone, the last, that upon me descended

Life, such as deities grant, though thou perceived’st it not. 
Phoebus, in vain with thy rays dost thou clothe the ether in glory: 

Thine all-brightening day hateful alone is to me. 
Into myself I retreat for shelter, and there, in the silence,

Strive to recover the time when she appear’d with each day. 
Was it possible beauty like this to see, and not feel it?

Work’d not those heavenly charms e’en on a mind dull as thine? 
Blame not thyself, unhappy one!  Oft doth the bard an enigma

Thus propose to the throng, skillfully hidden in words. 
Each one enjoys the strange commingling of images graceful,

Yet still is wanting the word which will discover the sense. 
When at length it is found, the heart of each hearer is gladden’d,

And in the poem he sees meaning of twofold delight. 
Wherefore so late didst thou remove the bandage, oh Amor,

Which thou hadst placed o’er mine eyes,—­wherefore remove it so late? 
Long did the vessel, when laden, lie waiting for favouring breezes,

’Till in kindness the wind blew from the land o’er the sea. 
Vacant times of youth! and vacant dreams of the future!

Ye all vanish, and nought, saving the moment, remains. 
Yes! it remains,—­my joy still remains!  I hold thee; my Dora,

And thine image alone, Dora, by hope is disclos’d. 
Oft have I seen thee go, with modesty clad, to the temple,

While thy mother so dear solemnly went by thy side. 
Eager and nimble thou wert, in bearing thy fruit to the market,

Boldly the pail from the well didst thou sustain on thy head. 
Then was reveal’d thy neck, then seen thy shoulders so beauteous,

Then, before all things, the grace filling thy motions was seen. 
Oft have I fear’d that the pitcher perchance was in danger of falling,

Yet it ever remain’d firm on the circular cloth. 
Thus, fair neighbour, yes, thus I oft was wont to observe thee,

As on the stars I might gaze, as I might gaze on the moon,
Glad indeed at the sight, yet feeling within my calm bosom