Do thy delicious trills and quavers stray
Around the quiet chamber where I write,
But often in the slumbrous hush of night,
When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing,
On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing,
Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring,
As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight.
Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap,
Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips;
Press hard against the pane your whitened lips,