The moon at the treetop; The green leaves a-tremble; The golden glow's last throb With the call of the cymbal. The Goddess of this hour, Peering silently through her star-woven veil From her throne in night's aerial bower, While the chakoras whistling, moonward sail. What soft voices sing, Whispering strange messages of love! What are those moon-eyes seeking? Is there no love above? Love, let thine eyes speak to mine More silently than one star to another; Pour thy soft smile like wine Into my mouth, thy lips on mine thy lips so rare! |