Midnight-

The world is locked in sleep with perfect night. Gazing from out my window I behold The moon, a burnished bowl of gleaming gold, Hung in mid-sky with azure wine brimmed bright. The sentinel church-spire lifts its stately height, And, where the vane upon its crest is bold, A single wanderer from the starry fold Shines cold and spectral with its twinkling light. White are the roofs, in crystal garments all; Unheard the murmuring streamlet's rhythmic flow-- Weird shapes upon the spotless waste of snow, The tree trunks stand where their gaunt shadows fall. Blest hour of rest--gift of a hand Divine! What quiet, peace, tranquillity are thine!