In the season of the waning moon
THE king of song is dying while the moon
Sinks pale into illimitable space,
And the great Dawn stretches her golden wings
Once more about the world, as when Love cries,
'Be comforted, thy heart shall no more fret.'

Another day! the forehead of the dawn
Wears yet the crescent of the failing moon,
And the dark figure of the shaded whole
Rests, ghost-like, fainting on the slender horns.
Stay with us, O thou ghost! for thou hast seen
His spirit on the wing, and while thou stayest
We cannot quite forget to question thee
Of the great singer in his happier sphere.

Again the day! again the splendid east!
The crescent and the star and the dim dawn
Conspire in silence; and withdraw them hence
Into his unseen land where none may die.