The soft soil slept below,
Above the dark sky shone;
And all around,
With a lulling sound
A warming gale did groan.
Rested still, the scattered stone,
As rushing, bounded braids did throw,
Churns that hushed the cicadas moan,
Ever soft, as sounds of swelling snow.
And though the buzz of mellowest tone
Eased the aching many alley cat’s bone,
Nor purr would ring, nor bird would tweet
But hearken, an even stilling sound that flown.
Where happy hues their airy rounds repeat
Of throbbing beats that concur their conceit.
A piping croon and rotund trombone
Diapason from two figures reposed, together alone.

Pallid rays of moonshine hue
Illumed thine eyes in its glare.
As a crane may beam
Along a sluggish stream,
Performing- so the gleam glances there-
As does it here,
And yellows the fringes of thy tangled hair
Scatter spread by the warm breath of night,
That then pressed and stroked with care
It may slide again across a skin as fair,
And soft as this twilled quilt of grass
Where we bask at end, the winding pass,
Performing- so well together we dance-
Acknowledged by the moonbeam’s glance.

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved;
Against its lambent blush
The languid wind made your bosom chill
And the night did shed
On thy dear head
It’s softening dews, and thou didst lie
The silken eaves of thine tired eyes.
And admire did the starry sky
As did I, your heart’s endearing rush.
And yet, script to perfection cannot stay
When allotted fragments of an enduring day
Sonorous sighs and sights that sway,
Do visit me at will.
Although there is that of hold, in candor I know,
That past the knotty knolls and scattered copsewood blows,
A warmer gale still.