Who, when my thoughts at midnight deep,
And senses drowned in slumber lie,
And star and moon their still watch keep,
Is imaged to my sleeping eye?
The gems amid the braids that ’twine
The dark locks from her pale brow thrown,
Faintly, as dews by eve wept, shine.
Her cheek—its living tints are flown.
Sure I should know that fond, fixed gaze,
Those hands whose fairy palms infold
Gently my own, the smile that plays
Around those lips now pale and cold.
O! ever thus, as Night repeats
Her silent star-watch, come to me!
More dear than all which living greets
My waking eye, a dream of thee.
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