Too fiercely or too soon;
It was the fault of the nightingale
Singing against the moon.
If reason swerved in a brief eclipse
The while I sinned my sin,
Opposed to love, it must always fail
Since love must always win.
The flowers rejoiced in that kiss of ours,
Even as they were fain
The great night moths should ravage their hearts,
Seeking for golden gain;
Bringing them pollen from other flowers,
Set open through the night
To play their motionless mystic parts
In nature's marriage rite.
And who was I, to resist, withstand
That charm of fragrant gloom?
A summer night has a thousand powers
Of scent and stars and Bloom.
Forgive me, in that my errant hand
Caressed your silken hair,
Oh lay the blame on the Orange flowers,
You know how sweet they were.
- Laurence Hope 1903