| |
| BY the fire that loves to tint her | |
| Cheeks the color of a rose, | |
| While the wanton winds of winter | |
| Lose the landscape in the snows,— | |
| While the air grows keen and bitter, | 5 |
| And the clean-cut silver stars | |
| Tremble in the cold and glitter | |
| Through the twilight’s dusky bars,— | |
| In a cosey room where lingers | |
| Happy Time on folded wings, | 10 |
| I am watching five white fingers | |
| Float across six slender strings | |
| Of an old guitar, held lightly,— | |
| Captivated while she sets, | |
| Here and there, five others tightly | 15 |
| On the frets. | |
| |
| Lost in loving contemplation | |
| Of the fair, shy, girlish face | |
| Conscious of no admiration, | |
| Posed with such a charming grace | 20 |
| O’er this instrument some Spanish | |
| Serenader used to keep | |
| Hidden till the sun would vanish | |
| And the birds were fast asleep; | |
| Who, below his loved one’s casement, | 25 |
| With the mellow Southern moon | |
| Through a leafy interlacement | |
| Shining softly, thrummed a tune: | |
| Did she answer it, I wonder? | |
| Did she frame a sweet reply? | 30 |
| Did she grant the wish made under | |
| Such a sky? | |
| |
| This I know, if she had listened | |
| To the melody I ’ve heard, | |
| Mute confessions must have glistened | 35 |
| In her eyes at every word; | |
| And the very stars above her | |
| Must have whispered, one by one, | |
| Something sentimental of her | |
| When the serenade was done. | 40 |
| For this music has but ended, | |
| And I leave my dreams to find | |
| With the notes are somehow blended | |
| Like confessions of my mind; | |
| And the gentle girl who guesses | 45 |
| What these broken secrets are, | |
| Is the one whose arm caresses | |
| This guitar. | |
| |
