The orient is all molten with the light
Of a perfected moon, and in the west
The deep blue tints look cool, and every star
Is drawn distinctly on the sheet of heaven.
The winds are wholly still, and as we pass,
Breaking the shadows of the many trees
That sleep upon the margin, or go in
Among the graceful windings of the stream,
We seem like wizards, turning into waves
The very sky—it sleeps so perfectly.