Pale as the ghost of thought, the glimmering horn
Steals through the portals of the western sky;
Pure as a frozen tear, white as the Morn,
When first she looks forth with uplifted eye.

Sweet as a white-robed bride, who walks alone
Some old accustomed path, by love made new;
The young moon threads her viewless course unknown,
Far through the gray vales of the falling dew.

No trumpet-blast upon the evening swells,
To note her coming; soft her trembling beams
Fall through the silence of celestial dells,
In which the tranquil star-light faintly gleams.

Down through the shadows of fantastic night,
Whose dew-damp mantle charms the world to rest,
Soft on the lids of weary eyes they light,
While sleep beguiles full many a troubled breast.