Whispering softly   Whispering softly, enticed by the rose-amber glow of night; For a moment, my face is soft, the moon and I make a fair  sight.   The nightingale knows the place of my repose beneath the tree where roses dance  with no purpose.   A night owl hoots,  breaking the spell, and stains the night with eerie sound. I tip-toe past  the shadowed hedge, past sheds ;  the moon is still around.   Waiting, waiting for the magic, the touch of a  lunatic  thrill, or  a song or  a loving thought from you in the night so still.   Aggie