THE high Midnight was garlanding her head With many a shining star in shining skies, And, of her grace, a slumber¹ on mine eyes, And, after sorrow, quietness was shed. Far in dim fields cicalas jargoned A thin shrill² clamour of complaints and cries； And all the woods were pallid³, in strange wise, With pallor of the sad moon overspread.

    Then came my lady to that lonely place, And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over； Wherefore the day is far less dear than night, And sweeter is the shadow than the light, Since night has made me such a happy lover.