The night is dewy as a maiden's mouth,
The skies are bright as are a
maiden's eyes,
Soft as a maiden's breath the wind that flies
Up from
the perfumed bosom of the South.
Like sentinels, the pines stand in
the park;
And hither hastening, like rakes that roam,
With lamps to
light their wayward footsteps home,
The fireflies come staggering
down the dark.
