In a Bower

A maiden sits in her bower and sings,
And your heart keeps time to the tune;
In the garden walks the red rose springs,—
The month is June.

The month is June, and full are the days,—
Fair days, of the summer fed;
And softly the singer sings her lays:
Her lips are red.

A face she has that is pale as Sleep,
And hair like the midnight skies
When the wings of tempest across them sweep,
And strange dark eyes.

The song she sings is a siren's song,
A tempting, dangerous rune,—
If you hark at all you will hear too long
That fatal tune.