Thinking of meadows where I was born—
And over the roofs, like a face of pity,
Up comes the Moon, with her dripping horn.
O Moon, pale Spirit, with dim eyes drinking
The sheen of the Sun as he sweepeth by,
I am looking long in those eyes, and thinking
Of one who hath loved thee longer than I;
I am asking my heart if ye Spirits cherish
The souls that ye witch with a harvest call?—
If the dreams must die when the dreamer perish?—