Dearest, It Was A Night That In Its Darkness Rocked Orion'S Stars; A Sighing Wind Ran Faintly White Along The Willows, And The Cedar Boughs Laid Their Wide Hands In Stealthy Peace Across The Starry Silence Of Their Antique Moss: No Sound Save Rushing Air Cold, Yet All Sweet With Spring, And In Thy Mother'S Arms, Couched Weeping There, Thou, Lovely Thing.