Just sinking in the green wood’s bosom;
And swift from heaven the night-dew sped,
With pearly gifts for leaf and blossom.
And soft as balmy dews of night
Upon the beauteous blossom’s breast,
Came slumber, and her finger light,
On every closing eyelid pressed.
’Twas night—dark night—no sound arose—
The weary eye forgot its weeping;
And wrapt in bonds of bland repose,