Beneath our eaves the moonbeams play,
Where trumps of white convolvulus
Lean out askance, and have their say
Half to the moon and half to us.
The foam-white tassel nestles still,
Where the taperlight has laid,
In its corner by the sill,
A black tassel for a shade.
It has laid the shadowy clasp
Of the high-barred baby-chair
On the milkwhite casement hasp.
The moon clasps and holds it there
With a darker, of her own
Milkwhite standing casement bar:
Dusky hands, thus all alone,
Clasped in each as lovers' are.
Through the sea of mellow space,
Where the moon and candle-light,
Taking tender heart of grace,
Mingle hands of holy white,
The moon looks between the bars
On the bar-flecked baby-seat,
Thinks — She! — to wile away the scars.
The taper smiles on her defeat.
Smiles, too, a steady shadow down
Between the fore and hinder stays
Of the moon's dais: with a frown
The table greets the carpet grays.
The moon turns to hide her smile. .
Creep up the light two spokes of dust,
Like light-streaks in a dusty aisle,
Beneath the chair — midway, are thrust
On the table shade in black.
The taper shrugs and hums a tune,
Two black crutches stumble back
On the wainscot to the moon.
... So the shadows make a raft
Of the chamber gear to-night:
Play cross-purpose fore and aft
By the moon and candle-light.