TO THE SERENADER.

By James Whitcomb Riley

Tinkle on, O sweet guitar,

Let the dancing fingers

Loiter where the low notes are

Blended with the singer's:

Let the midnight pour the moon's

Mellow wine of glory

Down upon him through the tune's

Old romantic story!

I am listening, my love,

Through the cautious lattice,

Wondering why the stars above

All are blinking at us;

Wondering if his eyes from there

Catch the moonbeam's shimmer

As it lights the robe I wear

With a ghostly glimmer.

Lilt thy song, and lute away

In the wildest fashion:—

Pour thy rippling roundelay

O'er the heights of passion!—

Flash it down the fretted strings

Till thy mad lips, missing

All but smothered whisperings,

Press this rose I'm kissing.