CREOLE LOVER'S SONG
Of the moonlit waters low,—
All things that to night belong
And can do my love no wrong
Bear her this hour for me.
Speed thee, wind of the deep,
For the cyclone comes in wrath!
The distant forests moan;
Thou hast but an hour thine own,—
An hour thy tryst to keep,
Ere the hounds of tempest leap
And follow upon thy path.
Whisperer, tarry a space!
She waits for thee in the night;
She leans from the casement there
With the star-blooms in her hair,
And a shadow falls like lace
From the fern-tree over her face,
And over her mantle white.
Spirit of air and fire,
To-night my herald be!
Tell her I love her well,
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