Iv

And so when the moonshine was floating Far up on the mountain's bleak head, On the uttermost foam of the torrent, Would I string a wild harp while was gloating The moon on my blossomy bed. Or I lay where a fountain of blossoms Rained rustling from arches aloft, From the thick-scented arbors aloft, And I sang as the blossoms' white bosoms Pressed silk-smooth to mine and lay soft: I sang as their redolence stung me, And laughed on my blossomy couch, Till the fragrance and music had flung me Into shadows of sleep with their touch, The magic of exquisite touch....