At the feet of his lady the moon
Lies the night,
Aquiver and breathless and bright
With the light
Of her smile on his face
And the shadows her slim fingers trace.
And now she is gone and he lies
Black browed and brooding and still,
And over the hill
The clear morning star
Burns but the set him athrill.
But the night steals away,
Seeking his lady, and leaves the star, paling, to day.