Is imaged in the sleeping stream,
All nature’s deep and solemn hush
Is like the silence of a dream;
And peace seems brooding like a dove
O’er scenes to musing spirits dear —
Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,
And I were blest if thou wert here.
The myriad flowers of every hue
Are sinking to their evening rest,
Each with a timid drop of dew