No cloud between the myriad stars and me,—
Soft music moving o’ er a sleeping land
Of winds that fret about the cypress tree,
And Rhone’ s swift rapids rippling past the sand.
Arch over arch, and tower on battled wall,
Against the violet deepness of the skies;—
And one grey spire set high above them all,
Where round the hill the moon begins to rise.
An hour’ s knell rings softly out once more
From unseen cloisters, where the misty bridge
Fades in the distance of the further shore,
And nearer spires repeat it o’ er and o’ er;
One great blue star peers through the seaward ridge;
A hollow footfall up the echoing street
Goes wandering out to silence, and the breeze
Drops faint and fainter, here beneath my feet
The grass is all with violets overstrewn;
Oh listen, listen; in yon garden trees
Do you not hear the lute that lovers use!
One sets the discord of its strings atune;—
And in the dreamland of the risen moon
They sing some olden love-song of Vaucluse.