Lying on the soft velvet of her lonely bed,
She hears the almost inaudible murmuring
And faint whispers of her servants rising
As dawn's faint diffusing light barely
Discloses shadows of the nighttime interlude,
The interlude of her solitude.
She lies there indulging a delicious lucid
Dream of passionate stifled secrets,
A dream of no reasonable logic or thought,
A dream which knows, as she knows, only
The lonely burning desperation of her
Breathless cries and moans of desire.