The silver silence of the moon
Upon the sleeping garden lies;
The wind of evening dies
As in forgetful dreams a ghostly tune.
How white, how still the flowers are,
As carved of pearl and ivory!
The pines are ebony,
A somber frieze on heavens pale and far.
Like mirrors made of lucid stone
The pools lie still and bright and cold,
Where moon and stars behold,
In some eternal trance, themselves alone.