Moonrise

The cool and trailing garments of the dusk
Have dimmed the flaming ribbons of the sun.

From a walled garden comes the scent of musk.

Beyond the darkening shadows of the trees
The black garbed mountains guard their mysteries.

The night-wind whispers secrets of a tryst
The moon must keep with the enchanted world
That waits enwrapped in clouds of purple mist
Impatiently the hour when radiant light
Shall pierce the thralling curtain of the night.

At last, a faint far lustre tips the mountain's crest
And drenches all the trees with silver rain.

The Goddess of the moon, in glittering garments dressed,
Comes forth like some fair eastern temple maid.

The incense of her draperies fills the glade,
A filmy band of mist across her breast.

The fringes of her robe are caught with stars
And shyly, as if heeding earth's behest,
The edges of her veil are gently curled
And her face smiles down upon the waiting world.

Helene Thurston