Oft in the night I am with you, Dear!
I lean and listen your breathing to hear;
Little you dream of any one near.

No one knoweth that I am gone;
Curtains closely about me drawn,
When dreams dissolve at a touch of Dawn!

Nobody meets me under the sky,
Only the staring Owl goes by
Softly as though the night should sigh.

Under the moonlight, over the moss!
I need no bridge the river to cross,
Though winds awake and waters toss.

O sweet, so sweet the Nightingale's strain!
Is it her pleasure that works us pain,
Or her pain that with pleasure pierces the
brain?

Window or door I pass not through:
The way I never could show to you
By day. I enter as spirits do!

There you are! lying cheek-on-palm,
Drinking of slumber's dewiest calm,
Brimming your life with the rosiest balm.

The little wee bird that beats in the breast,
Hath folded its wings in a wee white nest,
Breathing the fullness of innermost rest.

But the other night—see my blushes bloom—
Somehow I missed my way in the gloom,
And, thinking myself quite safe in your room,

I nestled my face, as I thought, in your bed
To kiss you, and—now let me hide my head—
I kissed—I kissed—your Teacher instead.