A TWILIGHT FANCY
Dear, give me the tips of your fingers
To hold in this scented gloom,
'Mid the sighs of the dying roses,
That steal through the breeze-swept room;
I would have you but lightly touch me,
A phantom might stir the dress,
In its passing, of some lost lover
With just such a faint caress;
Or a butterfly wan with summer
Brush thus with his down-flecked wings
The bells of the altar lilies
He touches, and lightly rings.
So give me the tips of your fingers,
Not your hand, lest I break the spell
Of the moment with too much passion,
And lose what I love so well.