Her Guitar

By the fire that loves to tint her Cheeks the color of a rose, While the wanton winds of winter Lose the landscape in the snows,— While the air grows keen and bitter, And the clean-cut silver stars Tremble in the cold and glitter Through the twilight’s dusky bars,— In a cosey room where lingers Happy Time on folded wings, I am watching five white fingers Float across six slender strings Of an old guitar, held lightly,— Captivated while she sets, Here and there, five others tightly On the frets. Lost in loving contemplation Of the fair, shy, girlish face Conscious of no admiration, Posed with such a charming grace O’er this instrument some Spanish Serenader used to keep Hidden till the sun would vanish And the birds were fast asleep; Who, below his loved one’s casement, With the mellow Southern moon Through a leafy interlacement Shining softly, thrummed a tune: Did she answer it, I wonder? Did she frame a sweet reply? Did she grant the wish made under Such a sky? This I know, if she had listened To the melody I ’ve heard, Mute confessions must have glistened In her eyes at every word; And the very stars above her Must have whispered, one by one, Something sentimental of her When the serenade was done. For this music has but ended, And I leave my dreams to find With the notes are somehow blended Like confessions of my mind; And the gentle girl who guesses What these broken secrets are, Is the one whose arm caresses This guitar.