In the Firelight.

The daylight gone, The curtains drawn, The evening meal completed; My bird abed, With tiny head ’Neath golden wing secreted; By firelight’s glare And easy chair And cosy cushions wooed, Alone I sit, With lamps unlit, In peaceful solitude. My tired feet Soft slippers greet; Unloosened hang my tresses; My dressing gown, As soft as down, My weary form caresses. The purring cat Upon the mat Beneath my feet is dozing. The firelight falls Upon the walls, The pictures half exposing. 22The flashing light, Now dull, now bright, Makes objects queer look queerer. Above the shelf I see myself Reflected in the mirror. The painted faces Of the Graces Each smiling at me seems. Upon the stand Close at my hand, My gilt-edged Shakespeare gleams. My fancy traces Forms and faces Among the glowing coals. The fitful blaze Incessant plays At making fiery scrolls. From silver vase On dressing case I scent the fragrant rose. ’Mid silence deep, Inviting sleep, My drooping eyelids close. Come then, sweet dreams Of pleasant themes, And soothe me in my slumber; My soul entice To Paradise, ’Mid pleasures without number.