THE waning moon was up; the
Were faint, and very few;
The vines about the window-sill
Were wet with falling dew;

A little, cloud before the wind
Was drifting down the west;
I heard the moaning of the sea
In its unquiet rest:

Until, I know not from what grief,
Or thought of other years,
The hand I leaned upon was cold,
And wet with falling tears.