THE WANDERER

Over the pool of sleep

The night mists creep,

Then faint thin light and then clear day,

Noontide, and lingering afternoon;

Then that Wanderer, the Moon

Wandering her old wild way.

How many spirits follow

Her in that dark hollow!

Like a lost lamb she roams on high

Through the cold and soundless sky,

And stares down into her deep

Reflection in the pool of sleep.

How many follow

Her in that lone hollow!

She sees them not nor would she hear

Though both shape and sound were clear,

But stares, stares into the pool

Of her fear and beauty full.

Far in strange gay skies

She pales and dies,

Forgetting that bright transitory

Reflection of astonished glory,

Nor heeds the spirits that follow

Her into day's bright hollow.