A luxury of deep repose! the heart
Must surely beat in quiet here. The light
Is such as should be on the poet's harp
When he awakens his first song of love,
Echoed but by the wind and nightingale.
There is a silver beauty on the leaves—
The night has given it; and the green turf
Seems as just spread for fairy revelling.
I will not look on it—it is too fair!
Its green, moonlighted loveliness but mocks
The hot and hurried scenes in which we live.
God! that this Earth should be so beautiful,
And yet so wretched!