Behold, she said, a falling star!
I followed where her vision led,
And saw no meteor near or far,
So swiftly sank the lustre dead.

In silvery moonlight stood she there,
Whiter than silver gleamed her hand,
And gleaming shone her yellow hair,
While dusky shadows filled the land.

She seemed a slender flickering shape,
Framed in the blackness of the porch:
How should a child of night escape,
A foolish moth that loves the torch!

Out of my dusk I came to her;
Voices were stilled anear, afar;
I stood there lost, her worshiper:
She only saw the falling star.