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FLOWER of the moon!
Still white her brow whom we worshiped on earth long ago;
We have broken
her altars and silenced her voices of praise.
She hath hearkened to singing more silvern,
Yet she loveth the world that forsook her, for, lo! once a year
She, Diana, translucent,
pale, scintillant, down from her sphere
Floateth earthward like star-laden music, to bloom in a flower,
And the night is a glory around her more bright than the day,
And
we long as we worship to follow her back to her own,—
Flower of the moon!
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