The moon is stilly creeping

The moon is stilly creeping,

Her silv'ry lustre grows,

Weary the earth is sleeping

In beauteous calm repose.

In dreams the trees are sighing,

The brooklet trips afar;

Angels are singing and flying

Round ev'ry tender star;

And through the distance hover

A thousand fancies dear,

From soul of friend and lover

Unto the sleepers here.

Below in the valley are sparkling

The lights of my dear one's home;

Yet wander I in the darkling,

Far in the world to roam.