The glowing west has darkened into night,
The stars are out, and from their cisterns pour
On tree and tower a flood of mellow light,
Through which the crags in sheeted silver soar;
While caverned cliffs the billows’ dirge prolong,
And roll it back a murmuring tide of song.
And this is rapture—thus alone to stray
Along the moon-lit shore, and hear each wave
Repeat its dying anthem round the bay,
Or rush exulting down some sparry cave