The moon a light-hung world of gold,
Low-drooping, pale, and phantom-fair;
The fresh pomp of the summer leaves,
And fragrance in the breathing air.

Beneath the trees flat silhouettes,
Mute idiot shapes that shun the light,
Weird crook-kneed things, a fickle crew,
The restless children of the night.

In idle vacant pantomime
They nod and nod forevermore,
And clutch with aimless fluttering hands,
With thin black hands the leaf-strewn floor.

Quivering, wavering there forever
On the bright and silent ground,
Meshed and tangled there together
While the rolling earth goes round,

And the gold-tinged aery ocean
Ripples light in many a breeze
O'er the sweet-breathed purple lilac,
O'er the tall and slumbering trees.