A FRAIL hand hovering sets the keys astir Wan-faced in the vague twilit rose and gray, While like the wafture of light wings in air A doting melody begins to sway, Falters uncertain as with fear astray In this room rife with all the sweet of Her. And what is this suave to-and-fro that goes Like fondling hands of my poor being fain? What would you, wavering song? What longing flows In the soft babble of your shy refrain, Now wafted out in the wide air to wane Beyond the window where the garden blows? |