Nocturne

The wan moon enkindles in the pond alight,

Mirror of glories golden, a commotion fiery.

All drowse. Alone, half-loud, a nightingale so late

Trills quite ill with love its liquid melody.

No more brave the breezes the bronze mystery

Of the limbs. The moon has stilled their babble nocturnal:

But through the mourning-cloth of open leafery

Rain the cobalt kisses of the stars taciturn.

The deepmost ancient pleasure of dreaming unto death

All around the pond makes sleep the soul of things,

Scarce an effort feigns the forest in a breath

Under the subtle shiver of its metamorphosings.

Each leaf loses itself gradually in fogs subtle.

From the zenith of azure drops the dew by degrees

That crystalline encrusts with pearls each flower-pistil

Of the lilies floating on water with fleurs-de-lis.

Nothing draws from darkness, nor bird, nor breeze, nor babble,

Save far within the wood, by many starts and stalls

A very turbulent rivulet scrambles down the scrabble:

The echo erupts of the flashing waterfalls.

Stuart Merrill