WHITE as moon upon the desert sand.

Petal-pure from taint of finitude,

On sward untrod by Time strange lilies stand.

Lift gars of limpid bloom with galaxies bedewed.

Those plains of wideness nor dream nor thought have spanned;

Nor breaks one whisper of mortality

Upon the foam-bright silence of that land,—

That moment's rapture held from what joy-frenzied sea ?