THE RISING OF THE MOON

The Day brims high its ewer

Of blue with starry light,

And crowns as King that hewer

Of clouds ( which take their flight

Across the sky ) old Night.

And Tempest there, who houses

Within them, like a cave,

Lies down and dreams and drowses

Upon the Earth's huge grave,

With wandering wind and wave.

The storm moves on; and winging

From out the east — a bird,

The moon drifts, calmly bringing

A message and a word

Of peace, in Heaven it heard.

Of peace and times called golden,

Whose beauty makes it glow

With love, like that of olden,

Which mortals used to know

There in the long-ago.