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Poem	I have slept upon my couch, But my spirit did not rest, For the labours of the day Yet my weary soul opprest; And, before my dreaming eyes Still the learned volumes lay, And I could not close their leaves, And I could not turn away. But I oped my eyes at last, And I heard a muffled sound; 'Twas the night-breeze, come to say That the snow was on the ground. Then I knew that there was rest On the mountain's bosom free; So I left my fevered couch, And I flew to waken thee! I have flown to waken thee -- For, if thou wilt not arise, Then my soul can drink no peace From these holy moonlight skies. And, this waste of virgin snow To my sight will not be fair, Unless thou wilt smiling come, Love, to wander with me there. Then, awake! Maria, wake! For, if thou couldst only know How the quiet moonlight sleeps On this wilderness of snow, And the groves of ancient trees, In their snowy garb arrayed, Till they stretch into the gloom Of the distant valley's shade; I know thou wouldst rejoice To inhale this bracing air; Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep To behold a scene so fair. O'er these wintry wilds, alone, Thou wouldst joy to wander free; And it will not please thee less, Though that bliss be shared with me.
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