Descending the trellis of the stars
Unto the Earth's rim, that thou
Dost traverse the shadowed ways-
What is thy witchery?
Lo, methinks thou art a phantom weaver,
For the night is but the spirit of the day.
Aye, and nothing in her shadowed hours
Is real, nor openly announced.
Lo, moon Goddess! night descends,
That curtained mystery which would
Mislead man, making his heart
To quake in fear of oblivion-and thou,
Descending upon a merciful errand,
Dost bid the phantom go-
Causing the shadows to spring,
Peopling the earth with phantomry,
Mellowing man's heart till it becomes
As a harp strung with golden strings,
Waiting the touch of tomorrow,
That it give forth a softened melody.
by PATIENCE WORTH
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