Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.
And, now, with noiseless step, sweet Memory comes
And leads me gently through her twilight realms.
What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung,
Or delicatest pencil e’er portrayed,
The enchanted, shadowy land where Memory dwells?
It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,
Dark shaded by the mournful cypress tree,
And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed
In heaven’s own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,