Classic Poem

The moon is descending,
My spirit is tending
To thee, my beloved,
And only to thee!

I SEE her returning,
And fearing and mourning,
That never — O! never,
Her youth shall she see.

The moon is departed;
I fly, eager-hearted,
That no one may ravish
My maiden from me.

Y E doves! that are plighted —
Ye clouds! by heaven lighted,
Watch over my maiden,
My advocates be!