A Serenade

By Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Imp of Dreams, when she's asleep,
To her snowy chamber creep,
And straight whisper in her ear
What, awake, she will not hear --
Imp of Dreams, when she's asleep.

Tell her, so she may repent,
That no rose withholds its scent,
That no bird that has a song
Hoards the music summer-long --
Tell her, so she may repent.

Tell her there's naught else to do,
If to-morrow's skies be blue,
But to come, with civil speech,
And walk with me to Chelsea Beach --
Tell her there's naught else to do!
Tell her, so she may repent --
Imp of Dreams, when she's asleep!