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.