Aloft the moon in heaven's dome.

Sultry the night, tempests foretelling:

For the last time before I roam

I see the surf in splendor swelling.

A ship glides by, a shadowy form,

Faint roseate lights around me sparkle,

A gathering mist precedes the storm,

And far-off forest tree-tops darkle.

The silver-crested waves are lashing

The pebbly shore tumultuously:

Absorbed I watch their ceaseless dashing,

Myself as still as bush or tree.

Within arise fond memories

Of moonlight evenings long since vanished,

Once full of life as waves and breeze,

From this familiar shore now banished.

Hushed in the grove is the birds' song,

Spring's blossoms tempests caused to perish;

Yet what through eye and ear did throng

The heart for evermore will cherish.