The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl,
That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;—
Rapidly—rapidly
With the blast,
Clouds of ebony
Wander fast,
And one the maiden hath fixed her eyes on,
Hath pass’d o’er the moon, and is near the horizon!
Ah Christabel, I dread it, I dread it,
That the clouds of shame