Nocturne

Your soul is like a lovely garden place Where masque and bergamasque move graciously, Playing the lute and dancing, yet of face Half sad beneath their guise of fantasy. The while they sing in minor key Love conquering, life opportune, They seem to doubt their own felicity— Their song floats faintly upward in the moon, In the clear moonlight, sad and fair, That makes birds dream where dim boughs sway, And fountains sigh their rapture on the air From marble pools—the tall slim fountain spray.