Mysterious star! Thou wert my dream All a long summer night— Be now my theme! By this clear stream, Of thee will I write; Meantime from afar Bathe me in light! Thy world has not the dross of ours, Yet all the beauty—all the flowers That list our love, or deck our bowers In dreamy gardens, where do lie Dreamy maidens all the day, While the silver winds of Circa**y On violet couches faint away. Little—oh! little dwells in thee Like unto what on earth we see: Beauty's eye is here the bluest In the falsest and untruest— On the sweetest air doth float The most sad and solemn note— If with thee be broken hearts, Joy so peacefully departs, That its echo still doth dwell, Like the murmur in the shell. Thou! thy truest type of grief Is the gently falling leaf— Thou! thy framing is so holy Sorrow is not melancholy