The nightwind sings and rustles through the reeds.
The pallid lilacs by the lake are sweet.
“I wait for thee! Ah, when will come thy feet
Down the chill steps. … Hush. … 'tis the gate. … none heeds. …”

The nightwind sings and rustles through the reeds.
The nightwind sweeps and whispers by the boat.
The lake is calm. “Ah, hide me in thine arm,
Against that bosom, young and white and warm.…
How scarlet are thy lips, how wild thy throat.”

The nightwind sweeps and whispers by the boat.

The frosty nightwind trembles through the reeds.
“Hark! Birds of dawn!” “If ever this rapture die!”
“Thou weepest?” “Sweet and bitter is my cry.”
The gate is closed. The harsh moon upward speeds.

The nightwind storms and shivers through the reeds.