By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

THE RISING moon has hid the stars;   
Her level rays, like golden bars,   
    Lie on the landscape green,   
    With shadows brown between.   
   
And silver white the river gleams,           
As if Diana, in her dreams,   
    Had dropt her silver bow   
    Upon the meadows low.   
   
On such a tranquil night as this,   
She woke Endymion with a kiss,   
    When, sleeping in the grove,   
    He dreamed not of her love.   
   
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,   
Love gives itself, but is not bought;   
    Nor voice, nor sound betrays    
    Its deep, impassioned gaze.   
   
It comes, - the beautiful, the free,   
The crown of all humanity, -   
    In silence and alone   
    To seek the elected one.  
   
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep   
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,   
    And kisses the closed eyes   
    Of him who slumbering lies.   
   
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!   
O drooping souls, whose destinies   
    Are fraught with fear and pain,   
    Ye shall be loved again!   
   
No one is so accursed by fate,   
No one so utterly desolate,   
    But some heart, though unknown,   
    Responds unto his own.   
   
Responds, - as if with unseen wings,   
An angel touched its quivering strings;   
    And whispers, in its song,    
    "Where hast thou stayed so long?" 

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