The Serenade

The midnight is not more bewildering

To her drowsed eyes, than to her ears, the sound

Of dim, sweet singing voices, interwound

With purl of flute and subtle twang of string,

Strained through the lattice, where the roses cling

And, with their fragrance, waft the notes around

Her haunted senses. Thirsting beyond bound

Of her slow-yielding dreams, the lilt and swing

Of the mysterious delirious tune,

She drains like some strange opiate, with awed eyes

Upraised against her casement, where aswoon,

The stars fail from her sight, and up the skies

Of alien azure rolls the full round moon

Like some vast bubble blown of summer noon.