BROAD on the sunburnt hill the bright moon comes, And cuts with silver horn the hurrying cloud, And the cold Pole Star, in the dusk, resumes His last night's light, which light alone could shroud. And legion other stars, that torch pursuing, Take each their stations in the deepening night, Lifting pale tapers for the Watch, renewing Their glorious foreheads in the infinite. Never before had night so many eyes. Never was darkness so divinely thronged As now—my love! bright star!—when you arise, Giving me back that night which I had wronged. Now with your voice sings all the immortal host, This god of myriad stars whom I thought lost. |