In the Firelight.
The daylight gone,
The curtains drawn,
The evening meal completed;
My bird abed,
With tiny head
’Neath golden wing secreted;
By firelight’s glare
And easy chair
And cosy cushions wooed,
Alone I sit,
With lamps unlit,
In peaceful solitude.
My tired feet
Soft slippers greet;
Unloosened hang my tresses;
My dressing gown,
As soft as down,
My weary form caresses.
The purring cat
Upon the mat
Beneath my feet is dozing.
The firelight falls
Upon the walls,
The pictures half exposing.
The flashing light,
Now dull, now bright,
Makes objects queer look queerer.
Above the shelf
I see myself
Reflected in the mirror.
The painted faces
Of the Graces
Each smiling at me seems.
Upon the stand
Close at my hand,
My gilt-edged Shakespeare gleams.
My fancy traces
Forms and faces
Among the glowing coals.
The fitful blaze
Incessant plays
At making fiery scrolls.
From silver vase
On dressing case
I scent the fragrant rose.
’Mid silence deep,
Inviting sleep,
My drooping eyelids close.
Come then, sweet dreams
Of pleasant themes,
And soothe me in my slumber;
My soul entice
To Paradise,
’Mid pleasures without number.