For the lovely moon, in the “lift aboon,”
Was 'shrined on her azure throne,
And bright and clear in the slumbering mere
Her mirrored semblance shone.
We were silent both, and the evening moth
Was the only life that stirred,
And the far, faint roll of the waterfall
The only sound we heard;
Till soft and slow did a murmur low
Come on through the quivering trees,