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.