Il fait nuit.

And, I, faithful, do kneel before the balcony,
an odd Cyrano awaiting the appearance of his Roxanne.

As all in this new tale is reversed to the lore of old,
I do not call out, but wait on thee to speak.

When so blessed by thy sweet words, or blessed more still by thy sweet sight,
I begin my own adulations.

My words are as weak to the ears as poor Cyrano's were of strength.
I falter, I consider, I recast, then, blunder forth an effluent of mediocrity.

I am heard? Is it better than I am not? None the matter, I carry on.

Oh for sweet words more from thee,

I will, with joy, make a fool of me.