THE MOON LOOKS IN

I have risen again,

And awhile survey

By my chilly ray

Through your window-pane

Your upturned face,

As you think, “Ah-she

Now dreams of me

In her distant place!”

I pierce her blind

In her far-off home:

She fixes a comb,

And says in her mind,

“I start in an hour;

Whom shall I meet?

Wo n't the men be sweet,

And the women sour!”