I SING beneath your lattice, love, A serenade in praise of you; The moon is getting rather high, My voice is, too, my voice is, too. The lakelet in deep shadow lies, Where frogs make much hullabaloo, I think they sing a trifle hoarse, And I do, too, and I do, too. The blossoms on the pumpkin vine Are weeping diamond tears of dew; 'Tis warm, the flowers are wilting fast, My linen, too, my linen, too. All motionless the cedars stand, With silent moonbeams glancing through, The very air is drowsy, love, And I am, too, and I am, too. Oh, could I soar on loving wings, And at your window gently woo! But then your lattice you would bolt, So I'll bolt, too, so I'll bolt, too. |