What brings thee out in the sweet spring night?

What brings thee out in the sweet spring night,

To make the flowers half mad with fright?

The violets are all of a flutter.

The roses for very shame are red,

The lilies -- pale as are the dead --

Impeach thee, beseech thee, and stutter.

O thou dear Moon, of what pious sect

Are then the flowers, that they detect

My crimes without further token?

How could I know they had listened and heard

Each glowing, each love-besotted word

That I with the stars had spoken?