Her Guitar

Frank Dempster Sherman (1860–1916)

BY the fire that loves to tint her

Cheeks the color of a rose,

While the wanton winds of winter

Lose the landscape in the snows,—

While the air grows keen and bitter,

And the clean-cut silver stars

Tremble in the cold and glitter

Through the twilight’s dusky bars,—

In a cosey room where lingers

Happy Time on folded wings,

I am watching five white fingers

Float across six slender strings

Of an old guitar, held lightly,—

Captivated while she sets,

Here and there, five others tightly

On the frets.

Lost in loving contemplation

Of the fair, shy, girlish face

Conscious of no admiration,

Posed with such a charming grace

O’er this instrument some Spanish

Serenader used to keep

Hidden till the sun would vanish

And the birds were fast asleep;

Who, below his loved one’s casement,

With the mellow Southern moon

Through a leafy interlacement

Shining softly, thrummed a tune:

Did she answer it, I wonder?

Did she frame a sweet reply?

Did she grant the wish made under

Such a sky?

This I know, if she had listened

To the melody I ’ve heard,

Mute confessions must have glistened

In her eyes at every word;

And the very stars above her

Must have whispered, one by one,

Something sentimental of her

When the serenade was done.

For this music has but ended,

And I leave my dreams to find

With the notes are somehow blended

Like confessions of my mind;

And the gentle girl who guesses

What these broken secrets are,

Is the one whose arm caresses

This guitar.

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