Lapped in the stillness of repose,
I sit and muse and dream of beauty;
I picture all that’s fair and bright
Which poets sometimes call Elysian,
And, ’mid the shapes that round me throng,
Behold one soft, enchanting vision.
A lady—lovely as the morn
When Night her starry mansion closes,
And gentle winds with fairy feet
Toss the sweet dew from blushing roses—