A Twilight Fancy

Dear, give me the tips of your fingers To hold in this scented gloom, 'Mid the sighs of the dying roses, That steal through the breeze-swept room;

I would have you but lightly touch me, A phantom might stir the dress, In its passing, of some lost lover With just such a faint caress;

Or a butterfly wan with summer Brush thus with his down-flecked wings The bells of the altar lilies He touches, and lightly rings.

So give me the tips of your fingers, Not your hand, lest I break the spell Of the moment with too much passion, And lose what I love so well.