Poetry Archives

Ten o’clock: the broken moon
  Hangs not yet a half hour high,
    Yellow as a shield of brass,
In the dewy air of June,
  Poised between the vaulted sky
    And the ocean’s liquid glass.

Earth lies in the shadow still;
  Low black bushes, trees, and lawn
    Night’s ambrosial dews absorb;
Through the foliage creeps a thrill,
  Whispering of yon spectral dawn
    And the hidden climbing orb.

Higher, higher, gathering light,
  Veiling with a golden gauze
    All the trembling atmosphere,
See, the rayless disk grows white!
  Hark, the glittering billows pause!
    Faint, far sounds possess the ear.

Elves on such a night as this
  Spin their rings upon the grass;
    On the beach the water-fay
Greets her lover with a kiss;
  Through the air swift spirits pass,
    Laugh, caress, and float away.

Shut thy lids and thou shalt see
  Angel faces wreathed with light,
    Mystic forms long vanished hence.
Ah, too fine, too rare, they be
  For the grosser mortal sight,
    And they foil our waking sense.

Yet we feel them floating near,
  Know that we are not alone,
    Though our open eyes behold
Nothing save the moon’s bright sphere,
  In the vacant heavens shown,
    And the ocean’s path of gold.