O lovely moon, how well do I recall The time,—'tis just a year—when up this hill I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee: And thou suspended wast o'er yonder grove, As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill. But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared Thy countenance to me, because my eyes Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed; For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome, And is so still, unchanged, belovÈd moon! And yet this recollection pleases me, This computation of my sorrow's age. How pleasant is it, in the days of youth, When hope a long career before it hath, And memories are few, upon the past To dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!