The Sleeper George Crumb

At midnight, in the month of June
I stand beneath the mystic moon
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim
Exhales from out her golden rim
And softly dripping, drop by drop
Upon the quiet mountain top
Steals 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;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take
And would not, for the world, awake
All Beauty sleeps! — and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right —
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top
Laughingly through the lattice drop —
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout
Flit through thy chamber in and out
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully — so fearfully —
Above the closed and fringéd lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid
That, o’er the floor and down the wall
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress
And this all solemn silentness!