THE silent Deep all strewn with stars

Unswayably withholds

A moon to reap the star-fraught ears

That midnight's acre folds ;

Though a sickle-blade in the harvest hour

Reap all the stars away,

And the gleaner maid of dawn shall leave

The stark bare field of day.

O Siva-moon be swift and raze

Number and name and form,

Leaving the boon of Wideness bright

And Peace beyond all storm.