At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon: An opiate vapour, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim; And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see, the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!—and, lo! where lies (Her casement open to the skies) Irene, with her destinies!

O, lady bright, can it be right, This window open to the night? The wanton airs from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice drop; The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully, so fearfully, Above the closed and fringÈd lid ‘Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid, That, o’er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees. Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress, Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all-solemn silentness.