Beneath her silver veil;
Her golden locks in wanton play,
As sunbeams through the mist make way,
Stole round her bosom pale!
"Falling waters afar were heard,
To lull the slumb'ring fair:
Yet ever and aye, her soul seemed stirred,
In dove-like murmurs, as if the bird
Of dreams sat brooding there.
"All rude winds were hushed to rest;