Mysterious star!

Thou wert my dream

All a long summer night—

Be now my theme!

By this clear stream,

Of thee will I write;

Meantime from afar

Bathe me in light!

Thy world has not the dross of ours,

Yet all the beauty—all the flowers

That list our love or deck our bowers

In dreamy gardens, where do lie

Dreamy maidens all the day;

While the silver winds of Circassy

On violet couches faint away.

Little—oh! little dwells in thee

Like unto what on earth we see:

Beauty’s eye is here the bluest

In the falsest and untruest—

On the sweetest air doth float

The most sad and solemn note—

If with thee be broken hearts,

Joy so peacefully departs,

That its echo still doth dwell,

Like the murmur in the shell.

Thou! thy truest type of grief

Is the gently falling leaf—

Thou! thy framing is so holy

Sorrow is not melancholy.