Iii

Where shall I find a corner in this room Almost in darkness? Ah! that deep recess Of languid cushions, eager to caress My weary limbs! from out its dreaming gloom Made holy by the incense of perfume, All unobserved and happy I'll confess My senses to those roses, passionless, And listening in their bowl of silver doom. Sing, sing, sweet friend, but soft, though eagerly! With tender pauses in between the notes Filled up with little sighs, unconsciously— These rose-dropped petals, they are fairy boats Our souls may sail on lakes of melody Adown whose ripples youth eternal floats.