Night has come. Let us go then, Goddess of my dreams.
The Angel of Love has called us to the glory of his altar.
Darkness stirs up hymns and songs,
Its joy pervades the water, trees and clouds.
Let us dream now, for this is our night of love.

Let us stand along the Nile, where moonlight, lustrous as a baby's skin,
Floods the green bank beyond its water and its shade.
Let us play as it plays, kissing the roses and the dew,
There on the hillside, grass will be our cradle,
Silence will enfold our souls, Love's nightingale will trill.

THE NIGHT has a thousand eyes,
The day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When its love is done.

Never think she loves him wholly,
Never believe her love is blind,
All his faults are locked securely
In a closet of her mind;
All his indecisions folded
Like old flags that time has faded,
Limp and streaked with rain,
And his cautiousness like garments
Frayed and thin, with many a stain -
Let them be, oh, let them be,
There is treasure to outweigh them,
His proud will that sharply stirred,
Climbs as surely as the tide,
Senses strained too taut to sleep,
Gentleness to beast and bird,
Humor flickering hushed and wide

Nephews and Nieces, — love your leaden statues.
Call them by name; call him " Paul. " She is " Virginia. "
He leans on his spade. Virginia fondles a leaden
fledgling in its nest. Paul fondles with his Eyes.
You need no cast in words. You know the Statues,
but not their Lawns; nor words to plant again
the shade trees, felled; ponds, filled, and built over.
Your Garden is destroyed, but there are other Gardens
yet to spare from the destroying Spoor
unseen, save in destructful Acts. Unseen
a hungered Octopus crawls under ground

(with Irving Mills)

If you hear a song in blue
Like a flower crying for the dew,
That was my heart serenading you,
My prelude to a kiss.
If you hear a song that grows
From my tender sentimental woes,
That was my heart trying to compose
A prelude to a kiss.
Though it's just a simple melody
With nothing fancy, nothing much,
You could turn it to a symphony,
A Schubert tune with a Gershwin touch.
Oh! How my love song gently cries
For the tenderness within your eyes.
My love is a prelude that never dies,
A prelude to a kiss.

My tall sunflowers love the sun,
Love the burning August noons
When the locust tunes its viol,
And the cricket croons.

When the purple night draws in,
With its planets hung on high,
And the attared winds of slumber
Wander down the sky,

Still my sunflowers love the sun,
Keep their ward and watch and wait
Till the rosy key of morning
Opes the Eastern Gate.

Then, when they have deeply quaffed
From the brimming cups of dew,
You can hear their golden laughter
All the garden through!

My song is love unknown,
My Saviour's love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I,
That for my sake
My Lord should take
Frail flesh, and die?

He came from his blest throne,
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed-for Christ would know.
But O, my friend,
My friend indeed,
Who at my need
His life did spend!

Sometimes they strew his way,
And his sweet praises sing,
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King.

(with Paul Webster)

What's your story, morning glory,
What makes you look so blue?
The way that you've been acting, I don't know what to do,
For I love you, sure as one and one makes two.
What's your story, morning glory,
Got a feeling there's a lot you're concealing.
So won't you tell me that you love me, too?
What's your story, morning glory,
You've got me worried, too.
A postman came this morning and left a note for you.
Did you read it? Then you know that I love you.
What's your story, morning glory,

My mother she's so good to me,
Ef I was good as I could be,
I couldn't be as good — no, sir! —
Can't any boy be good as her!

She loves me when I'm glad er sad;
She loves me when I'm good er bad;
An', what's a funniest thing, she says
She loves me when she punishes.

I don't like her to punish me. —
That don't hurt, — but it hurts to see
Her cryin'. — Nen I cry; an' nen
We both cry an' be good again.

She loves me when she cuts an' sews
My little cloak an' Sund'y clothes;
An' when my Pa comes home to tea,

1

My mother called me to her deathbed side, these words she said to me:
“If your don't mend your rovin' ways, they'll put you in the penitentiary,
They'll put you in the penitentiary, poor boy, they'll put you in the penitentiary,
If you don't mend your rovin' ways, they'll put you in the penitentiary.”

2

I sat me down to play coon can, could scarcely read my hand,
A thinkin' about the woman I loved, ran away with another man.
Ran away with another man, poor boy, ran away with another man.