Bagatelle

Imp of Dreams, when she's asleep,

To her snowy chamber creep,

And straight whisper in her ear

What, awake, she will not hear --

Imp of Dreams, when she's asleep.

Tell her, so she may repent,

That no rose withholds its scent,

That no bird that has a song

Hoards the music summer-long --

Tell her, so she may repent.

Tell her there's naught else to do,

If to-morrow's skies be blue,

But to come, with civil speech,

And walk with me to Chelsea Beach --

Tell her there's naught else to do!

Tell her, so she may repent --

Imp of Dreams, when she's asleep!