  THOU walkest with me as the spirit-light Of the hushed moon, high o’er a snowy hill, Walks with the houseless traveller all the night, When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill. Moon of my soul, O phantom of delight, Thou walkest with me still. The vestal flame of quenchless memory burns In my soul’s sanctuary. Yea, still for thee My bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearns Each separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea: My moon of love, to whom for ever turns That life that aches through me. |
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