At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top.
Steal drowsily and musically,
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave,
The lily lolls upon the wave,
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest.