How still she lies!
A bride in all her wedding splendor dressed,
After the day's sweet tumult and surprise
Laid in soft rest.
Ere yet the hour
Has come that brings the bridegroom to her arms,
In that mysterious pause 'twixt bud and flower
Of royal charms.
With dearest eyes
Closed over dreams of glorious substance wrought,
Placid as peace, in all content she lies,
And still as thought.
The tender flush
Of twilight lingering warm on brow and cheek,
Upturned in perfect slumber 'mid the hush,
Serene and meek.
Scarcely a gem
Is shaken 'midst the clusters on her breast,
Nor trembles there the red rose on its stem,
So deep her rest.
No faintest stir
Of zephyrs playing unseen round her bed,
Disturbs the folds of the bright robe round her
In wealth outspread.
'Twixt low hills peaked
Hangs the bepainted couch on which she lies,
Pillowed with mist and curtained by the streaked,
All life around
Gives worship in a silence delicate,
Soothed by the vision and the charm profound
Of peace so great.
In white undress,
The moon, with two shy children at her side,
Looks down on her in matron tenderness,
Regret, and pride.
Tranquil and fair,
Untroubled by a thought of all the earth
She sleeps, secure in kindly nature's care
As at her birth.
From thee, still lake,
Passes the shadow of a peace unguessed
By all the dreamless world, substance to take
In this sure breast.