The rosy mist stilly polishes the round mirror...

The rosy mist stilly polishes the round mirror,

The moon;

Golden her face

Reflecting the cool sweet glory of a

Baby sun

When dangling

His short golden arms in the cradle of the sky

After night

Gave him birth,

And herself died as day dies to see the moon,

This golden

Rose-washed stone

That the unseen hand puts on the crown of night

Beside it puts

Bits of white —

The star-jewels like million fancies, worshipping

The goddess

Of dream.