I

The cactus and the aloe bloom Beneath the window of your room; That window where, at evenfall, Beneath the twilight’s first pale star, You linger, tall and spiritual, And hearken my guitar.

It is the hour When every flower Is wooed of moth or bee-- Would, would you were the flower, dear, And I the moth to draw you near, To draw you near to me, My dear, To draw you near to me!