In the waveless stream was seen;
Till the deep repose of the stillest night
Was hushing about his giddy flight.
The noon of the night is nearly come—
There’s a crescent in the sky;—
The silence still hears the myriad hum
Of the insect revelry.
The hum has ceas’d—the quiet wave
Is now the sportive May-fly’s grave.
Oh! thine was a blessed lot—to spring