Classic Poem

On the Faubourg Saint Marceau
Lay, this morning, thick and heavy,
Like a clinging pearly night,
Pensive mists of dying autumn.

Like a moonbeam, filmy, fair,
Through the pearly night there wandered,
Woman-like, a gracious form
On the path, athwart my going.

Yes, she moved and vanished light,
Soft and coyly as a moonbeam.
I have never seen in France
Limbs so exquisite and slender.

Was it maybe Luna's self,
Some Endymion young and lovely
Of the Latin quarter, loth
At the peep of dawn, forsaking?

On my homeward way I mused,
“Did the Goddess think me Phœbus,
Phœbus, driver of the sun,
That she fled before my glances?”