"O, Wind of Night, soft-creeping,
Sweet charge I give to thee,
Steal where my love lies sleeping
And bear her dreams of me;
And in her dream,
Love, let me seem
All she would have me be.
"Kind sleep! By thee we may attain
To joys long hoped and sought in vain,
By thee we all may find again
Our lost divinity.
"So, Night-wind, softly creeping,
This charge I give to thee,
Go where my love lies sleeping
And bear her dreams of me."
Hearkening to this singing Yolande shivered, yet not with cold, and casting
a cloak about her loveliness came and leaned forth into the warm, still
glamour of the night, and saw where stood Jocelyn tall and shapely in the
moonlight, but with hateful cock's-comb a-flaunt and ass's ears grotesquely
a-dangle; wherefore she sighed and frowned upon him, saying nothing.
"Yolande?" he questioned. "O my lady, and wilt frown upon my singing?"
Answered she, leaning dimpled chin upon white fist and frowning yet:
"Nay, not--not thy--singing.
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