The old Tower gray
Bids purple day
Paint the grave mosses with its Tyrian hue,
And fine-toned Night
Rounds with dim light
Each crumbling stone into proportion due.

My tinkling lute
Converts the mute
And humble silence into golden singing;
The laden air
Rich scents doth bear,
Around the ruin, vase-like odors flinging.

The Tower's round song
Dances along,
Like a brown gondola through the still sea,
Its shadow sings,
My love-note brings,
How sweet is night, in my own Italy.