BY the fire that loves to tint her Cheeks the color of a rose, While the wanton winds of winter Lose the landscape in the snows, -- While the air grows keen and bitter, And the clean-cut silver stars Tremble in the cold and glitter Through the twilight's dusky bars, -- In a cosey room where lingers Happy Time on folded wings, I am watching five white fingers Float across six slender strings Of an old guitar, held lightly, -- Captivated while she sets, Here and there, five others tightly On the frets. Lost in loving contemplation Of the fair, shy, girlish face Conscious of no admiration, Posed with such a charming grace O'er this instrument some Spanish Serenader used to keep Hidden till the sun would vanish And the birds were fast asleep; Who, below his loved one's casement, With the mellow southern moon Through a leafy interlacement Shining softly, thrummed a tune: Did she answer it, I wonder? Did she frame a sweet reply? Did she grant the wish made under Such a sky? This I know, if she had listened To the melody I've heard, Mute confessions must have glistened In her eyes at every word; And the very stars above her Must have whispered, one by one, Something sentimental of her When the serenade was done. For this music has but ended, And I leave my dreams to find With the notes are somehow blended Like confessions of my mind; And the gentle girl who guesses What these broken secrets are, Is the one whose arm caresses This guitar. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HIS LADY'S HAND by THOMAS WYATT RELIGION by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. BENJAMIN PANTIER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS METAMORPHOSES: BOOK 8. BAUCIS AND PHILEMON by PUBLIUS OVIDIUS NASO KENTUCKY BELLE by CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON |