THE river sleeps beneath the sky,
⁠And clasps the shadows to its breast;
The crescent moon shines dim on high;
⁠And in the lately radiant west
⁠The gold is fading into gray.
⁠Now stills the lark his festive lay,
⁠And mourns with me the dying day.

While in the south the first faint star
⁠Lifts to the night its silver face,
And twinkles to the moon afar
⁠Across the heaven's graying space,
​⁠Low murmurs reach me from the town,
⁠As Day puts on her sombre crown,
⁠And shakes her mantle darkly down.