.It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and slumber,Upon the upturned faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their souls in an ecstatic death-Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, .Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
while the moon Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn'd- alas, in sorrow! Was it not Fate, that, on this midnight-Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?No footstep stirred: the hated world an slept,.(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)The pearly lustre of the moon went out:The mossy banks and the meandering paths,The happy flowers and the repining trees,Were seen no more: the very roses' Died in the arms of the adoring airs.All- all expired save thee- save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes-Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.,
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
But now, at length, dear sank from sight,Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. !