OVER the moss-grown ruin silently steals the moon,
Gently her way pursuing, while to the same old tune
Winds through the casements come sighing,
Rustle the clinging vines,
Fall withered leaves all a-dying,
Dreamily whisper the pines.
Ever the moon comes glowing, seeking to find the night,
Like a maid bent upon wooing seeks she the gloom in his flight;
Winds through the half-fallen casements
Murmur the same old tune;
Darkness is fleeing Adonis,
Aphrodite, the moon!
F. A. T.