IX

2 0 00

IX

Frosty the night; the heavens shone;

The wondrous host of heavenly spheres

Sailed silently in unison⁠—

Tattiana in the yard appears

In a half-open dressing-gown

And bends her mirror on the moon,

But trembling on the mirror dark

The sad moon only could remark.

List! the snow crunches⁠—he draws nigh!

The girl on tiptoe forward bounds

And her voice sweeter than the sounds

Of clarinet or flute doth cry:

“What is your name?” The boor looked dazed,

And “Agathon” replied, amazed.