The blossom-powdered orange tree, For all her royal speechlessness, Out of a heart of ecstasy Is singing, singing, none the less!
Light as a springing fountain, she Is spray above the wind-sleek turf: Dream-daughter of the moon's white sea And sister to its showered surf!
TO THE MOON IV In A major Allegro con brio
Moon that shone on Babylon, Searching out the gardens there, Could you find a fairer one Than this garden, anywhere? Did Damascus at her best Hide such beauty in her breast?
When you flood with creamy light Vines that net the sombre pine, Turn the shadowed iris white, Summon cactus stars to shine, Do you free in silvered air Wistful spirits everywhere?
Here they linger, there they pass, And forget their native heaven: Flit along the dewy grass Rare Vittoria, Sappho, even! And the hushed magnolia burns Incense in her gleaming urns.
When the nightingale demands Word with Keats who answers him, Shakespeare listens—understands— Mindful of the cherubim; And the South Wind dreads to know Mozart gone as seraphs go.
Moon of poets dead and gone, Moon to gods of music dear, Gardens they have looked upon Let them re-discover here: Rest—and dream a little space Of some heart-remembered place!
Grace Hazard Conkling