The wind across the meadow plumes
Has danced the whole day through,
And now, the honeysuckle blooms
Breathe perfume to the dew.
Oh, love, that cried at morn, " Too soon! "
Dear love, that cried " Not yet! " at noon,
Sweet love, is eve more opportune
For me to plead to you?

The moth that fled from morning light
Now seeks that honey scent:
The moth that day could only fright
At dusk grows confident.
And like the honeysuckle vine,
I'd give you every sweet of mine,
While just a look from you, or sign,
Would make me so content!

Dear heart, my love is not a fire
To scorch you at its light;
It steals to you as flowers respire
Their fragrance in the night.
So, sweetheart, as the night-moth sips
Taste it but once; with eyes, or lips,
Or just one touch of finger-tips
Make mine a glad good-night.