A rosy mist seems to polish the moon until it shines like a round golden mirror. That glow comes from a baby sun, newly born from night, dangling its short arms in the cradle of the sky. As the sun rises, night slips away, just as day later fades to let the moon return. The speaker feels quiet wonder at this exchange, as if watching a sacred ritual rather than an ordinary dawn. The moon becomes a rose-washed golden stone placed in night’s crown, while the stars are tiny white jewels scattered around it. Those stars feel alive, too—like millions of devoted fancies worshipping a goddess of dream. The mood is hushed, reverent, and dreamlike, full of gentle movement and glowing color. It leaves the boundary between night and morning feeling tender, intimate, and faintly magical.
The Rosy Mist Stilly Polishes the Round Mirror — Summary
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.