The night is dewy as a maiden's mouth,
    The skies are bright as are a maiden's eyes,
    Soft as a maiden's breath the wind that flies
Up from the perfumed bosom of the South.
Like sentinels, the pines stand in the park;
    And hither hastening, like rakes that roam,
    With lamps to light their wayward footsteps home,
The fireflies come stagg'ring down the dark.