The night through yonder cloudy cleft,
With many a lingering last regard,
Withdraws — but slowly — and hath left
Her mantle on the dewy sward.
The lawns with silver dews are strewn;
The winds lie hushed in cave and tree;
Nor stirs a flower, save one alone
That bends beneath the earliest bee.
Peace over all the garden broods;
Pathetic sweets the thickets throng;
Like breath the vapour o'er the woods
Ascends — dim woods without a song:
Or hangs, a shining, fleece-like mass
O'er half yon lake that winds afar
Among the forests, still as glass,
The mirror of that Morning Star
Which, halfway wandering from the sky,
Amid the rose of morn delays
And ( large and less alternately )
Bends down a lustrous, tearful gaze.
Mother and home of spirits blest!
Bright gate of Heaven and golden bower!
Thy best of blessings, love and rest,
Depart not till on earth thou shower!