Poetry Archives

The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
  Lie on the landscape green,
  With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams
  Had dropt her silver bow
  Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
  When, sleeping in the grove,
  He dreamed not of her love.

Like dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
  Nor voice, nor sound betrays
  Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes,—the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,—
  In silence and alone
  To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life’s oblivion, the soul’s sleep,
  And kisses the closed eyes
  Of him who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
  Are fraught with fear and pain,
  Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
  But some heart, though unknmown,
  Responds unto his own.

Responds,—as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
  And whispers in its song,
  “Where hast thou stayed so long?”