Whilst the wings of the angel of darkness were closing
Beneath the soft touch of her bright silvery ray.
Far, far from her smile grim darkness had fled,
And queen of the night she gloried to rise,
While the tears which the angels o’er mortals had shed,
Congealed into stars, bespangled the skies.
’Twas the hour of twelve, the bright, witching hour,
That I gazed on this slumber of night,
And thought of the time when the fairies had power
To dance, while he slept o’ercome by moonlight.