Serenade

Dark is the iris meadow, Dark is the ivory tower, And lightly the young moth's shadow Sleeps on the passion-flower.

Gone are our day's red roses, So lovely and lost and few, But the first star uncloses A silver bud in the blue.

Night, and a flame in the embers Where the seal of the years was set,— When the almond-bough remembers How shall my heart forget?