The pale moon hovers, glimmering wanly through,
Like a sad chord in chorus gay and sweet.
Frailer than cloud she seems, and torn and frayed;
A little wandering fragment, drifting slow,
Of that brave golden summer moon which made
Midnight so beautiful awhile ago.
Why comes she back at this untimely hour,
When noon is nigh and birds are singing clear,
And the fierce sun, her rival, burns with power?—
What can the poor, the pretty moon want here?