The clustered grapes hang purple 'neath the moon,
Their heady stupors tinge the veins of sleep,
From out the dark a restless mavis calls—
Closer the tides of midnight creep.

Each wayward instinct stilled within the fold,
Their innocence a prayer—the white flock lies;
'Neath spangled shepherding both man and beast—
Higher the tides of midnight rise.

The wild deer covert in the fern,
Let Love the lattice bar no more!
Night breaks the slave-chains of the day—
O'er us the dream-tides whelming pour.