O lovely moon, how well do I recall
  The time,--'tis just a year--when up this hill
  I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee:
  And thou suspended wast o'er yonder grove,
  As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill.
  But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared
  Thy countenance to me, because my eyes
  Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed;
  For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome,
  And _is_ so still, unchanged, beloved moon!
  And yet this recollection pleases me,
  This computation of my sorrow's age.
  How pleasant is it, in the days of youth,
  When hope a long career before it hath,
  And memories are few, upon the past
  To dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!