LIKE a white lotus flower the moon unfolds Her luminous petals and the stars grow pale. Vague mists withdraw, grey shadows o’er the water Shadows of twilight tremulous and frail. The flutes of dusk are still; new worlds unveil; God for such moments made the nightingale. And yet, O Philomel, thou couldst not chant From the cool shadow of a cedar tree, So high a lay as this I hear in rapture, The song his utter silence sings to me. Of the brown earth is thy winged melody. But God is in this wordless ecstasy.
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