Softly sings
the southern rain,
a silver sheen,
On ivy gleams,
Painted vines,
on a painted wall.
Whispered voices,
crisp with color,
A crimson dusk,
dark curtains fall.

Night parts before me,
my moon of envy,
Along the shores,
Were night birds call.
Shadows laugh,
Just made of mist,
As evening’s breath,
Drifts slowly past,
My window ledge,
I sleep at last.