For Hearts Where Wakened Love

O Woman! Thou Wert Fashioned To Beguile: So Have All Sages Said, All Poets Sung.

It Is A Comely Fashion To Be Glad; Joy Is The Grace We Say To God.

When Sparrows Build And The Leaves Break Forth My Old Sorrow Wakes And Cries.

Such A Slender Moon, Going Up And Up, Waxing So Fast From Night To Night, And Swelling Like An Orange Flower-bud, Bright, Fated, Methought, To Round As To A Golden Cup, And Hold To My Two Lips Life's Best Of Wine.

The Moon Is Bleached As White As Wool, And Just Dropping Under; Every Star Is Gone But Three, And They Hang Far Asunder,-- There's A Sea-ghost All In Gray, A Tall Shape Of Wonder!