My spirit on wings that were strong
Peeped at Luella's pane,
While the light of the host of the stars
Fell in a golden rain.
My soul, with the scintillant stars
Peered in the dusky room,
At the dreams, in a fanciful throng
Filling the failing gloom.
My soul, like a fluttering dove,
Beat at the dew-dim pane;
Ah, my spirit was suffering love
Wooing in vain, in vain,
Benightedly there by her nest
Cooing a tender strain,
While its mate in her maidenly rest
Slumbered and dreamed again.

My soul as a butterfly may
Floated with tiny grace
Through the zephyrous breath of her sighs
Over her fair fresh face,
And timidly passing her eyes,
Resting on brow, on lips,
On her bosom it trembled and lay
Light as her finger-tips.
Till calmly the god of the day
Rose with the eastern beams
Of the colours that earliest play,
Dawning with curious gleams;
And back to my wakening will
Hurried my soul, it seems,
But at noon and at eve it was still
Dreaming these morning dreams.