A Serenade

The moon is muffled in a cloud,
That folds the lover's star,
But still beneath thy balcony
I touch my soft guitar.
If thou art waking, Lady dear,
The fairest in the land,
Unbar thy wreathed lattice now,
And wave thy snowy hand.
She hears me not; her spirit lies
In trances mute and deep; —
But Music turns the golden key
Within the gate of Sleep!
Then let her sleep, and if I fail
To set her spirit free!
My song shall mingle in her dream,
And she will dream of me!