Oh! that the night were passed, and morn,
Made lovely by the joy of spring,
Would flood these sombre clouds with dawn,
Oh! that some hopeful bird would sing,
And in his tiny feathered throat
Contain the answer vast, remote,
My spirit seeks in endless spheres
Of thought, and prayer, yet never hears !

The moon has risen from her cloudy bed,
And soared serenely into cloudless blue,
White as a lily in a haze of dew,
Pale lady, to the Summer Darkness wed—
She leaves her nuptial couch, by breezes spread,
And seeks her virgin solitude anew;
While all the being of the Dark thrills through
With memories, the while her stately head
She lifts above him to the purer height,
Nor heeds the restless anguish of desire
With which he seeks to turn to living fire
The icy splendour of her luring light.
She drifts, and smiles into his ardent eyes,
With cold disdain, and smiling still denies.