Strings in the earth and air
     Make music sweet;
     Strings by the river where
     The willows meet.

     There's music along the river
     For Love wanders there,
     Pale flowers on his mantle,
     Dark leaves on his hair.

     All softly playing,
     With head to the music bent,
     And fingers straying
     Upon an instrument.

     The twilight turns from amethyst
     To deep and deeper blue,
     The lamp fills with a pale green glow
     The trees of the avenue.

     The old piano plays an air,
     Sedate and slow and gay;
     She bends upon the yellow keys,
     Her head inclines this way.

     Shy thought and grave wide eyes and hands
     That wander as they list—
     The twilight turns to darker blue
     With lights of amethyst.

     At that hour when all things have repose,
     O lonely watcher of the skies,
     Do you hear the night wind and the sighs
     Of harps playing unto Love to unclose
     The pale gates of sunrise?

     When all things repose, do you alone
     Awake to hear the sweet harps play
     To Love before him on his way,
     And the night wind answering in antiphon
     Till night is overgone?

     Play on, invisible harps, unto Love,
     Whose way in heaven is aglow
     At that hour when soft lights come and go,
     Soft sweet music in the air above
     And in the earth below.

     When the shy star goes forth in heaven
     All maidenly, disconsolate,
     Hear you amid the drowsy even
     One who is singing by your gate.
     His song is softer than the dew
     And he is come to visit you.

     O bend no more in revery
     When he at eventide is calling.
     Nor muse: Who may this singer be
     Whose song about my heart is falling?
     Know you by this, the lover's chant,
     'Tis I that am your visitant.

     Lean out of the window,
     Goldenhair,
     I hear you singing
     A merry air.

     My book was closed,
     I read no more,
     Watching the fire dance
     On the floor.

     I have left my book,
     I have left my room,
     For I heard you singing
     Through the gloom.

     Singing and singing
     A merry air,
     Lean out of the window,
     Goldenhair.

     I would in that sweet bosom be
     (O sweet it is and fair it is!)
     Where no rude wind might visit me.
     Because of sad austerities
     I would in that sweet bosom be.

     I would be ever in that