As She Walks By

Slowly the moon through solemn banks of cloud

Moves as a pure-bread maiden, chaste and free,

Upon the hills she drapes a milk-white shroud

Luminous and couched in mystery.

There is something in the air tonight,

A mood, a dream or hushed expectancy

Yet more perhaps, a harbinger of light

One who shall reweave earth's tapestry.

The waiting leaf anticipates her touch,

The trembling shrubs wait for her to pass.

The flowers lean to her as if to clutch

A sweeter joy; the ever-patient grass

Cherishes every impress of her feet

And the winged ones honour her in song.

The ripening fruit offers her its sweet

Refreshing nectar and the swift and strong

Gentle kine bow down as she walks by

And holy presences her triumph cry.