"These eyes of mine for many a night
Have not beheld a finer sight.
To pull the candy was the part
Of some who seemed to know the art.
The moon had slipped behind the hill,
And hoarse had grown the whip-poor-will;
But still, with nose against the pane,
I kept my place through wind and rain.
There, perched upon the shaky pile,
With bated breath I gazed the while.