O'er gardens lulled with ghostly light
In music leaned the languorous moon,
The burden of the murmured night.

Where amaranthine lilies wore,
In lofty pallor fully blown,
An ivory silence evermore,

Bemused, I saw the night's white song,
The flowers' moon-measured lullaby,
Its visible pale rune prolong.

Then, to my spelled, reluctant ear,
A whisper louder than the light
Pierced as from alien presence near;

Till half I deemed to shortly see
A silver seraph of the moon,
Or star-shape harping mystery.

But wingless yet the midnight seemed,
The garden footless to my gaze,
Save for a wind that briefly gleamed

Upon the pensive-packed hours,
And moonlight fluttering like a moth
Amid the swayed, enormous flowers.