Sonnet 39

When the moon o'er the mountain-branches rises;
With rays as rainbows brilliant, lo! it seems
As if thy smile upon its pale face beams
With more than lunar light: for love disguises
All objects, and in passionate fondness I
Pour'd out my heart, and wildly held dicourse
With that supernal queen, until the hoarse
Laugh of the mountains shook the starry sky.
Then to night's spectre-spirits did I cry
Impatient—and they tarried in their course,
And bid the gentle stars of heaven reply:
"We have sent forth a sister from on high,
Clad all in love and light and beauty—she,
Slawa! was sent to minister to thee."