In languorous joys. Let pure, soft, balmy air
Trail soothing fingers o’er my brow and hair.
And let the rustle of the pine and palm
Sway rhythmic measure to the peaceful calm—
While floats the perfume of the orange bloom
In all its richness through my moonlit room.
Then, when I join the twilight, slumber throng,
Come thou, sweet Mock-Bird, fill my dreams with song!
—Mary H. Flanner.
