In the dark of night, midst hills and winding streams,
A beam descends from yonder moon, agleam,
To fall upon the lake so still and pure—
And down it drifts, an angel's form demure.
She treads in grace, her steps as soft as dew,
Her flowing hair, in waves of chestnut hue,
Loose curls that catch the light, yet soft they lay,
A silent glow that turns the night to day.
Her eyes, a gentle storm of tender grace,
Hold depths as endless as the starry space.
In modest glow, her fair skin pale and light,
A tranquil soul set free into the night.
The birds grow silent, charmed by her descent;
As nature bows, she wades with calm intent.
With bated breath, she slips beneath the lake,
Her spirit one with all the night awake.