The speaker is addressing a star that shines through thin clouds in the twilight, calling it a bright spangle on evening’s dark veil. This is the hour of sacred love, made sweeter by the star’s gentle gleam than by the pale light of the fading morning star. As the weary world falls silent and nature sinks into sleep, the only thing stirring is the voice of love—broken murmurs carried on a soft west wind that sighs now and then in the stillness. In this quiet, the star seems almost to soothe the troubled, lulling “the slaves of interest” to rest with a mild, pitying gaze. The speaker longs to keep looking into that dear beam until every tie to ordinary consciousness becomes enraptured—until sense itself falls in love. The mood is intimate, reverent, and deeply calming, as if the night and the star together conspire to shelter a private devotion from the noise of day.
To a Star — Summary
Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the darksome scene Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance fliest, Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy veil, Which shrouds the day-beam from the waveless lake, Lighting the hour of sacred love; more sweet Than the expiring morn-star's paly fires:-- Sweet star! When wearied Nature sinks to sleep, And all is hushed,--all, save the voice of Love, Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy blast Of soft Favonius, which at intervals Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou aught but Lulling the slaves of interest to repose With that mild, pitying gaze? Oh, I would look In thy dear beam till every bond of sense Became enamoured--