The ringèd moon sits eerily

The ringèd moon sits eerilyLike a mad woman in the sky,Dropping flat hands to caressThe far world's shaggy flanks and breast,Plunging white hands in the gladeElbow deep in leafy shadeWhere birds sleep in each silent brakeSilverly, there to wakeThe quivering loud nightingalesWhose cries like scattered silver sailsSpread across the azure sea.Her hands also caress me:My keen heart also does she dare;While turning always through the skiesHer white feet mirrored in my eyesWeave a snare about my brainUnbreakable by surge or strain,For the moon is mad, for she is old,And many's the bead of a life she's told;And many's the fair one she's seen wither:They pass, they pass, and know not whither.

The hushèd earth, so calm, so old,Dreams beneath its heath and wold—And heavy scent from thorny hedgePaused and snowy on the edgeOf some dark ravine, from whereMists as soft and thick as hairFloat silver in the moon.

Stars sweep down—or are they stars?—Against the pines' dark etchèd bars.Along a brooding moon-wet hillDogwood shines so cool and still,Like hands that, palm up, rigid lieIn invocation to the skyAs they spread there, frozen white,Upon the velvet of the night.