_Is the nìght chìlly and dàrk? The nìght is chìlly, but nòt dàrk._ The thin grey cloud is spread on high, It covers, but not hides, the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full, And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chilly, the cloud is grey; (These are not superfluities, but mysterious returns of importunate feeling) _’Tis a month before the month of May, And the spring comes slowly up this way._ The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle-gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothèd knight; And shè ĭn thĕ midnight wood will pray For the wèal ŏf hĕr lover that’s far away. She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heav’d were soft and low, And nought was green upon the oak, But moss and rarest mistletoe; She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, And in silence prayeth she. The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel! It moan’d as near as near can be, But what it is, she cannot tell. On the other side it seems to be Of thĕ hùge, broàd-breàsted, òld oàk trèe. The night is chill, the forest bare; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? (This ‘bleak moaning’ is a witch’s) There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady’s cheek-- There is not wind enough to twirl _The òne rèd lèaf, the làst ŏf ĭts clan, That dàncĕs ăs òftĕn ăs dànce it càn, Hàngĭng sŏ lìght and hàngĭng sŏ hìgh, On thĕ tòpmost twìg thăt loŏks ùp ăt thĕ sky._ Hush, beating heart of Christabel! Jesu Maria, shield her well! She folded her arms beneath her cloak, And stole to the other side of the oak. What sees she there? There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a robe of silken white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone: The neck that made that white robe wan, Her stately neck and arms were bare: Her blue-vein’d feet unsandall’d were; And wildly glitter’d, here and there, The gems entangled in her hair. I guess ’twas _frightful_ there to see _A lady so richly clad as she-- Beautiful exceedingly._