Poems (Bushnell)/Changed

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4493005Poems — ChangedFrances Louisa Bushnell
IICHANGED
Fair is the night, ay, fair and deep;
The moonlight drowns the vale;
My eyes are heavy, but not with sleep,
And the night-moth droops her sail.

There's not so much as a sigh in the air;
The stars are ghostly and few;
And silver-pale are the meadows, where
So coldly drops the dew.

But the haunting shadows are never still,
They wander all night alone,
And the sleepless insects drone and shrill
In a lonely monotone.

Ah! long ago was a summer night
Like this, and yet other far,
For the moonlight flowed, and the air hung light,
And happy was every star.

The dew that night was a blissful balm,
And seemed on the heart to fall;
The calm was an overflowing calm,
And love was the life of all.

Then piping choirs shrilled high, as now;
But hushed is the sylvan flute
Of the nightingale that dreamed on the bough,
And a tenderer music is mute.

'Tis the same save that, and yet all is strange,
As the soul of the night were fled;
Yes, I look and look, but can see no change,
Except that my world is dead.