Afore the Cockerel Crows

Who is this muse before me stood? I know her not, I say. A temperate stirring of the blood, I bid her go away. Her seducing, warm, pacific smile, The shining in her eye; I watch her handsome form a while And yet, her I deny. I took, once more, a further glance Affirming what I thought. A glowing, flowing, countenance Upon mine eyes here brought. I bid her go, a second time, Yet, still, she must remain Sparkling in the morning rime Be gone, I say again. I close my eyes and hope to see Her off before I wake. An angel come to beckon me And for my soul to take. My eyes are opened, looking on, Aroused from my repose ~ I'd surely bid her thrice begone Afore the cockerel crows.