Voices grow and memories die
Sleep now clouds a quiet eye
transports me to an August field
when on the crackling grass I lie

A fiery ball and airy sphere
A wonderous voice croons in my ear
"However cold the days may be,
The warmth of me is always near"

The ball got small, the bright blue heights
Turned grey and dismal-- on went lights
In houses full of families gay,
At four o'clock most every night
So I'll write a line and think it through
Love! A wrongtime thing to do
and though I'll lie eventually,
Right now, I swear it, I am true