  The moon is riding high, the stars are shining But very palely, through the clear blue light; The plain is empty, and the circling mountains Rise cold and far through swathes of mist to-night. There is no wind astir, the serried rushes Stand straight as lances round the glassed lagoon; Within still waters grows a single lily, A great white flower of solitude, the moon. My shadow that seemed taller than the mountains Lies gathered at my feet, a pool of ink, And as I move towards the sombre reed-beds I watch it spill and trickle, spread and shrink. Here in the moon-blanched pasture wide and silent With no voice waking and no foot astir Save mine, the lovely sleeping night surrounds me And naught is real save the thought of her. And yet the plain will wake to green and golden Within a few still hours; a breath will pass Crisping the mirror-surface of the water; The larks will start up from the dewy grass; The proud far sky will smile and grow more kindly; The gauzy wisps of cloud that float in it— The small pale frightened clouds that cast no shadow Since they dim not the starshine as they flit— Will mass to eastward like a host with banners, Dawn’s dazzling banners streaming out unfurled Above the dayspring’s golden fountain welling Up from beneath the dark rim of the world. |
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