'Twas cradled to sleep in a rapturous hour,
When all the green forest was still.
That flower, when golden and glad was the morning,
Was shriveled and wilted and thin;
But on the next night, all its chalice adorning,
The moonbeam still lingered within.
Since then has the flower been tender and creamy,
Wherever its petals have blown,
All fragile and pearly and dainty and dreamy
Is the night-blooming cereus known.