Classic Poem

How sweet the moon is climbing heaven's hill!
The night seems just as if for gallants made;
Her silver light gives courage, while the shade
In dim disguise the Lover hides. How still,
And yet how musical! Methinks I hear
A voice in every tree, as tho' they lov'd;
And at this hour towards each other mov'd:
So loving seems the night, so soft, and clear.
Groves, streams, dells, flowers, in solemn silence sleep;
While from yon terrace or high castled tower,
A pale light glimmers, which bespeaks the bower
Where Love expectant breathless watch doth keep;
Herself the star, eclipsing those above her,
That shines, and to her chamber lights her Lover.