The hour is late, and the moon
Hangs faint and low over the hill,
The great white stars in the sky
Are shining calm and still.
The houses and the street
Are dark and silent and lone;
But one light gleams thro’ the night:
My lady is watching, my own!
I lean on the wicket gate,
And silently breathe a prayer
That the angels of the night
May guard the dear one there!