The Moon, a ghost of her sweet self,
And wading through a watery cloud
(Which wraps her lustre like a shroud),
Creeps up the gray, funereal sky,
Wearily! how wearily!

The Wind, with low, bewildered wail
(A homeless spirit, sadly lost),
Sweeps shuddering o'er the pallid frost,
And faints afar, with heart-sick sigh,
Drearily! how drearily!

And now a deathly stillness falls
On Earth and Heaven, save when the shrill,
Malignant owl o'er heath and hill
Smites the wan silence with a cry,
Eerily! how eerily!