“The balmiest sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to this speaking quietude
That wraps this moveless scene.”—
~Shelley.

I love to gaze upon thee, silent moon!
For in thy mild and quiet beams I find
A thrilling calm, a something like to peace
Come o'er my soul, and breathe a short repose.
Still is each leaf,—no more the grove resounds
With carol loud; the village bell is mute,
And the last vesper prayer ascends to Heaven.
I pause—recal the past—remembering still
How yon pale queen has lent her silvery light
To guide my childhood home to peace and love.
Still would she gaze upon the tall old trees—
Majestic poplars—which a father's hand
Had planted—reared—and which I dearly prized;
Still would her beauteous rays—how beauteous still!—
Shine full on all I loved, and lull to rest.
Those times are gone, and Cynthia now no more
May o'er my dreams of happiness preside,
For at the fount of sorrow long and deep
Have been my draughts!