Early Graves

I WELCOME thee, silvery Moon,
Lovely, lonely Queen of the Summer-night!
Friend of Thought, wilt thou flee? Ah, return to me soon!
Lo, she abides! — the cloud alone passes from sight.

Than Night in the Summer-time
Nought is diviner, save the awaking of May,
When she comes o'er the hills from her own orient clime,
Dews begemming, like Light, her locks all the bright way.

Alas, on your graves, ye True,
Already tall weeds and wild flowers intertwine!
Oh, how blest felt I once, while as yet I with you
«Saw the Day redden at dawn, saw the starry Night shine!