III.
Beside my casement still I sit,
When goes my spirit forth,
With waving plume, and rustling wing,
Up toward the blazing North:
While solemnly the stars look down,
And solemnly they seem
To shed a fair and brilliant light
On this, my waking dream.
IV.
And high each everlasting hill
Lifts up its crownéd head,
Like some tall, stately cenotaph
For nations of the dead!
The broad, blue river rolls as free
As waters in that clime
Which bends above these waves, that flow
Like some subduing rhyme.
V.
Beside my casement's trailing vines
The zephyr finds me still,
When matin-hymns are gushing forth
From bird, and bee, and rill;
For not until the morning star,
That herald of the dawn,
Has flashed upon the eastern skies,
Are my sad eyes withdrawn.
VI.
I weary of the brilliant day,
The warm, sunshiny air.
And cling unto the solemn night,
When nature kneels at prayer;
For then my spirit wanders forth,
With a resistless power,
And, with its kindred spirit, holds
The midnight Trysting-Hour.