Twas noontide of summer, And mid-time of night;And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, tho' the liftoff the brighter, cold moon,'Mid-planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile;Too cold–too cold for me-There pass'd, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar, And dearer thy beam shall be;For joy to my hearts the proud part Thou nearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light.

The Complete Poetry