In the dead of the nipht,
I got ftom my bed—
The air stretched hollow
A theatre of the dead.
The night was half sunk, and the wind gone,
The passion of the wind was gone down,
But the boughs shaken a little, lit a little,
Spectrally by the moon.
“Themoon performed her march fantastic,
Theharrier of clouds, a fame half seen,
Or full in the hiph sky, the royal sables being spread,
A withered queen.
The moon, that chill frame, I saw enact
Her rite commemorative of a bound ghost,
And thought of a night wildly born, outliving storm,
And its tears lost.
Almost without pulse, a spectator to the moon.
A dream of some fashion set the body awake,
But called to the heart in the deeps of sleep, how rising
From sleep again it would break.
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