Classic Poem

Listen, maiden, to my strain,
Listen, pray thee, do!
Darkness shrouds the gloomy plain,
And our moon is on the wane,
Yet this fog cools not my brain,
'Tis on fire anew.

List! and from thy couch arise,
Rise, dear, pray thee do!
Not to gaze on murky skies,
That were now nor well nor wise,
But because your lover tries
To catch sight of you!

Draw that dismal curtain back —
Draw it back, duck, do!
'Tis like these clouds, whose flimsy rack
Hides yon bright moon's silvery track,
I'd rather see the window black,
And know it bright to you.

Let me see those love-lit eyes —
Let me, sweet; now, do-o-o!
Lit by them these misty skies
Ne'er would wish the moon to rise,
And the stars, like scared fire-flies,
Would hide deep in the blue.

Come, dear, dup that tiresome door —
Dup the door, duck, do-oo-o!
Let me love afar no more,
Singing in the fog's a bore,
Sooth to say my throat is sore,
Hoarse I'm getting too.

Let me to thy chamber creep,
Let me creep up, do-oo-oo!
I'll not again disturb thy sleep,
Nor more before thy window weep,
Listen, love, and do not keep
Me longer in the dew.

Listen, maiden, to my song,
Listen, now come, do-oo-oo-oo!
Do not deem my rhyming wrong,
I'm not of the ribald throng,
Let me in, I merely long
To read my rhymes to you.

San Francisco, March 16, 1870.