THE MOON LOOKS IN

I have risen again, And awhile survey By my chilly ray Through your window-pane Your upturned face, As you think, "Ah-she Now dreams of me In her distant place!"

I pierce her blind In her far-off home: She fixes a comb, And says in her mind, "I start in an hour; Whom shall I meet? Won't the men be sweet, And the women sour!"