Are lost in gloom—when naught is heard but waves
That roll and ripple through the restless reeds,
It droops its head and sinks in dreamless sleep,
Couched, like a jewel, among worthless weeds.
But sometimes, when the argent moon awakes
The Naiades to midnight mirth and song,
The blossom from its mournful slumber breaks,
And breathes again its sweet, unanswered sighs;
And all the stars that gild the glassy stream
Shine on its heavy gloom like pitying eyes.