And angels had folded away from the west
The wind-woven curtains of purple and red.
The moon’s silver morning had mantled the hills,
Inviting the world’s weary millions to lay
Their sorrows aside for the beauty that thrills
And soothes into silence the cares of the day.
When, lured by the luster of mountain and lea,
A maniac-maiden stole out of her tent
To wander and weep by the sorrowing sea
And sadden the night with her mournful lament.