Tinkle On, O Sweet Guitar, Let The Dancing Fingers Loiter Where The Low Notes Are Blended With The Singer'S: Let The Midnight Pour The Moon'S Mellow Wine Of Glory Down Upon Him Through The Tune'S Old Romantic Story! I Am Listening, My Love, Through The Cautious Lattice, Wondering Why The Stars Above All Are Blinking At Us; Wondering If His Eyes From There Catch The Moonbeam'S Shimmer As It Lights The Robe I Wear With A Ghostly Glimmer. Lilt Thy Song, And Lute Away In The Wildest Fashion: - Pour Thy Rippling Roundelay O'Er The Heights Of Passion! - Flash It Down The Fretted Strings Till Thy Mad Lips, Missing All But Smothered Whisperings, Press This Rose I'm Kissing.