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.