The stars are trembling wind-blown lamps to-night
By nymphs upheld whose bare, white feet now flee
Adown the winding stairs of ivory
That cross the terraced Garden of the Night.
Sly Nymphs! How they spin on in fluttered flight
Their misty, gossamer gowns out-floating free,
Dot-like, red, little mouths; eyes wide to see;
Hair like sun-flushed tree-tops at sweet twilight.
Unto the Opal Chambers of the Moon,
The irised chambers of old revelry