Calm is the night, and the city is sleeping.
Once in this house dwelt a lady fair;
Long, long ago, she left it, weeping —
But still the old house is standing there.

Yonder a man at the heavens is staring,
Wringing his bands as in sorrowful case:
He turns to the moonlight, his countenance baring —
O Heaven! he shows me my own sad face!

Shadowy form, with my own agreeing!
Why mockest thou thus, in the moonlight cold,
The sorrows which here once vexed my being,
Many a night in the days of old?