George Darley

* * *

In my bower so bright
As I lay last night,
The moon through the fresh leaves streaming,
There were sounds i' the air,
But I could not tell where.
Nor if I were thinking or dreaming.

'Twas the sound of a lute,
To a voice half mute.
That sunk when I thought it was swelling,
And it came to my ears.
As if drowned in the tears
Of the being whose woes it was telling.

Some accents I heard
Were like those of the bird
Who the lee-long night is mourning;
And some were like those
That we hear, when the rose
Sighs for her Zephyr's returning.

The tones were so sweet,
I thought it most meet
They should not be tones of gladness;
There are notes so fine,
That were melody mine.
They should only belong to sadness.

And the air-creature sung,
And the wild lute rung,
Like the bell when a cherub is dying;
I can tell no mo.
But the tale was of woe.
For the sounds were all lost in the sighing.

And still it sung on
Till the stars were gone.
And the sun through the dews was peeping;
When I awoke in my bow'r,
Ev'ry leaf, ev'ry flower,
Ev'ry bud, ev'ry blossom—was weeping!