The quiet chill, the hearts content,
Of maske\'d toungue of serpentine.
The wine is dark, the night is red.
The soltace here divine.
As fingers cross, through beams of light,
The darkess holds your breath so tight.
And flashes of your dreamy day.
Mistaken yet another way.
Where does the morning dwell.
Between heaven, nearest Hell.
And weeping clouds will cut your soul.
As dreary as exitefull.
Lay me gentle, lie me soft,
The eve, its breeze aloft.