The Rosy Mist Stilly Polishes the Round Mirror

The rosy mist stilly polishes the round mirror, The moon; Golden her face

Reflecting the cool sweet glory of a Baby sun When dangling

His short golden arms in the cradle of the sky After night Gave him birth,

And herself died as day dies to see the moon, This golden Rose-washed stone

That the unseen hand puts on the crown of night Beside it puts Bits of white--

The star-jewels like million fancies, worshipping The goddess Of dream.