Francisca walks in the shadow of night,
But it is not to gaze on the heavenly light —
But if she sits in her garden bower,
’Tis not for the sake of its blowing flower.
She listens — but not for the nightingale —
Though her ear expects as soft a tale.
There winds a step through the foliage thick,
And her cheek grows pale, and her heart beats quick.
There whispers a voice thro’ the rustling leaves;
A moment more and they shall meet —
’Tis past — her lover’s at her feet.