From the grove
And across the meadow
In the witching hour
Outside my window.

With a crystal voice
It aptly sings
Like a sweet wine
Pours its stellar melodies.

Feathered violin concocting
As the moon its light’s bestowing
A concerto with vocal strings
Timid nature, concealed by leaves.

Songs for a lonely poet’s fillip
Or for passions of the spirit
Like love and joy or maybe sorrow
Serenades for all to wallow.

Thus when each night comes,
I think Sing you little angel, sing!