That trips the silence of the silver moon
Into a halting, dreamy, lingering tune;
For words to catch thy glorious roundelay
And coin the music of thy ecstasy.
Clear, crystal-beaded melodies, unstrung—
Long threaded pearls of song, triumphant flung—
Song-storms, symphonic, silvered, sifting showers,—
And through it all, the breathing orange flowers—
... O, let me softly sink to sleep
’Neath Southern skies where all the senses steep