In the forest, there grows a flower
That the night loves with starlit showers.
How it blossoms near the tree beneath the moon!
Its petals are a vibrant indentation
Which, with its beauty, betokens the wilderness.

Rapacious and beguiled
Become the seekers of the bloom.
Ravenous are they for its syrupy nector,
And greedy for its savory and intoxicating effect,
Which is delusive to those who would otherwise be able to reckon.
Its glamour incites a yearning
That, not sated, becomes a burning
Which leaves a hollow place where the logic used to be,
And tangles the chords of one's emotions.

Not everything that is enticing is worth the bill of fare,
Even if it thrives freely throughout the land.

The twilight turns from amethyst
To deep and deeper blue,
The lamp fills with a pale green glow
The trees of the avenue.

The old piano plays an air,
Sedate and slow and gay;
She bends upon the yellow keys,
Her head inclines this way.

Shy thought and grave wide eyes and hands
That wander as they list -- -
The twilight turns to darker blue
With lights of amethyst.