The key was turned in that rusty door,
To add a slumbering mortal more
To its never, never failing store;
All is silent save the owl
That moans like a monk from beneath his cowl,
As the moon is looking on the lake,
Beside the ruined abbey;
And its fingers white on the waters shake,
Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,
For the pale old moon it must keep its wake