Hush-! Slow-! I creep behind an old oak’s cover,
To witness thine gossamer-white dress, where thy supple ******* hover,
Upon this stump thou dost sit, thy little viola enacting Dorian song,
Toward this sweet melodic scent, a little rabbit is drawn.
I gaze below the evening clouds and so must wonder;
Doth thy beauty draw mighty Dionysus asunder?
Then, suddenly, mystical air doth lift thy little viola,
And the air itself playeth quickly to a hemiola!
I watch in wonder, as thou prance to and fro,
Thy golden weaves swing, thine amorous glow.
Thy dance brings you toward me, though intentions blind,
I gasp out of fright, yet am flattered to find,
Thine outstretched hand, thy warming smile.
This hand I take, enchanted in thy charming beguile.
Under a springish dusk, and so teeming with myrth,
We gallivant in a passepied, feet dragging the earth,
Eight pixies, all aglow, give soft mellow light,
While I lift thine hand and spin thee with all my might.
Two songbirds perch, singing chorus for our overture’s peak,
And at the height of their strain, my lips meet thine cheek.
Thy soft white skin, thy blushing red glow,
I close mine eyes; we settle in, soft and slow;
And the pixies are gone, the songbirds had flown
And the viola is lost, too soon overthrown,
And of thy hand I let go, thy countenance fading,
I open my eyes to see none, but an empty forest waiting.