The music, the dance, and a stolen glance, 
A song like the night bird's cry; 
The warmth of your white hand at my cheek, 
The devil-may-care in your eye, 
Ane the couples swaying to right and left, 
What matter to you and I? 

'Tis a song that's made like a curved blade, 
With a hilt where bright gems gleam, 
A wierd refrain of valor'us deeds 
That are not what they seem, 
And an ending not that seems to be 
A phantom's eerie scream. 

A song of fire and heart's desire 
That kindled a flame in me, 
And left in its wake but wind-swept ash 
And a haunting memory 
Of your hair, your eyes, your flashing smile, 
And love's futility. 

         Sandy Doone.