The moonlight is but a parody
of the cold fire about you.
I laugh it off as I picture your face-
What are nights, without you?
A star-belt adorns the artless sky
and guards its pride in vain,
for when I think of your scornful smile
everything seems plain.
How naive is the wind to whistle
at me and play with a tress,
when you could by a single glance
have my soul undress.
And this silence that serenades
my hours, is but a gale of noise.
I follow the echoes of your beats-
for the quiet hasn't their poise.
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