The moon rushed up above the plain:
The crags were white like frosty rime;
Her beams upon me fell like rain.
It was her harvest month of might:
The vales and villages were glad;
I cried—my palms against the light—
Like one with sudden pinions clad,
“Whom seek'st thou, O thou rising moon
That broad'nest like a warrior's shield?
Whom seest thou? Thou shalt see him soon,