O, elmleaves dark and dewy, 1842. O, stars, ye saw our meeting, To mingle and be whole! O, happy night, deliver Her kisses back to me, Or keep them all, and give her A blissful dream of me! MIDNIGHT. THE moon shines white and silent On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean, O'er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows A vague and starry magic And lures the earth's dumb spirit I seem to hear dim whispers, And tremulous replies. The fireflies o'er the meadow In pulses come and go; The elmtrees' heavy shadow Weighs on the grass below; And faintly from the distance The dreaming cock doth crow. All things look strange and mystic, The very bushes swell And take wild shapes and motions, As if beneath a spell, They seem not the same lilacs From childhood known so well. The snow of deepest silence O'er everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet, And yet so like a pall, As if all life were ended, And rest were come to all. |