FROM PICCADILLY IN AUGUST

Now the trees rest: the moon has taught them sleep,

Like drowsy wings of bats are all their leaves,

Clinging together. Girls at ease who fold

Fair hands upon white necks and through dusk fields

Walk all content,— of them the trees have taken

Their way of evening rest; the yellow moon

With her pale gold has lit their dreams that lisp

On the wind's murmuring lips.

And low beyond

Burn those bright lamps beneath the moon more bright,

Lamps that but flash and sparkle and light not

The inward eye and musing thought, nor reach

Where, poplar-like, that tall-built campanile

Lifts to the neighbouring moon her head and feels

The pale gold like an ocean laving her.