A yellow moon in splendor drooping,
A tired queen with her state oppressed, Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping,
Lies she soft on the waves at rest.
The desert heavens have felt her sadness;
Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,
And goeth stilly as soul that fears.
We two walk on in our grassy places,
On either marge of the moonlit flood, With the moon's own sadness in our faces,
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.
VI.
A shady freshness, chafers whirring,
A little piping of leaf-hid birds; A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring,
A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.
Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered,
Bound valleys like nests all ferny-lined; Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered,
Swell high in their freckled robes behind.
A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver,
When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; A flashing edge for the milk-white river,
The beck, a river—with still sleek tide.
Broad and white, and polished as silver,
On she goes under fruit-laden trees; Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver,
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.
Glitters the dew, and shines the river;
Up comes the lily and dries her bell; But two are walking apart forever,
And wave their hands for a mute farewell.
VII.