At midnight in the
month of june, I
stand beneath the mistic
moon, An opiate vapor,
dewy, dim, Exhales
from out her golden
rim, And, softly
dripping,drop by dop,
Uponthe quiet
mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal
valley. The rose-
mary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls
upon the
wave; wrapping
the fog about
its breast, The ruin
molders int rest; Looking
like Lethe, see! the lake
Aconsci ous
slumber seems to take, And
would not, for the world,
awake.All beauty
sleeps!- and lo! where
lies Irene, with her
Destinies! O, lady bright! can
it be right- This ...