Classic Poem

In a country of moonshine and shadow
Dwelt a maid 'neath a mistletoe bough,
And her hair went in folds
Of rich auburns and golds,
Like a sunset wound over her brow.

Each night, as she tripped through the valley,
The moon on the tip of the fir
Wove itself a pale shroud
Out of shimmering cloud,
And left all the shining to her.

The daisies, all folded for slumber,
Put back their white fingers to see,
And the lilies looked round
As the low, silken sound
Of her garments crept over the lea.

Oh, the dusk might forget to bring starlight,
The valley might cheat me of flowers;
But the light and the bloom
Of her face would illume
And make lovely the darkest of hours!