Whence the sun sets in her keep,
And the songbirds fall asleep,
Let the pallid moonlight stray
From the heavens far away,
Into realm of hidden dreams,
Wither gently rolling streams
Flow neath boughs of silvery-grey
Trees, that in the wind do sway.
Let them wisper songs of old,
So at last they shall be told
To ye who hearken them and see,
What wonders were revealed to me.
