THE moon that metes the dark time

With hush full hours

And drowns in a tide of shimmering peace

The tallest to wars,

Sweeps with swift surge of loveliness

Far other lands ;

And no feet heavy with sorrow press

Those dread less sands.

Sentinel trees are fringing

A far-off shore—

O stillness of the boughs that trace

On a mossy floor

An ageless pattern of white moon-rays

That shift and cross,

A glyph of beauty and of love-filled days

Taintless, with no dross.