A mirage

Now the mountaintop all purple

Rises thro' a mist of silver,

While the moon, a disc of cobwebs,

Shining in the pallid heavens,

Ghostlike thro' the evening shadows.

Now the lofty eucalyptus

Stretches forth its chalky branches

Toward the lovely, lustred heavens,

While the drowsy westwind sighing

Sings the theme of lamentation.