And sometimes when the beetle’s horn
Hath lulled the eve to sleep,
I steal unto her shieling lorn,
And through her dooring peep.
There on the crickets’ singing stone
She stirs the bogwood fire,
And hums in soft, sweet undertones
The song of heart’s desire.

Her welcome, like her love for me,
Is from her heart within.
Her warm kiss is felicity
That knows no taint of sin.