Half Moon

The little pools of starlight splash Against the poplars’ slender lines; The moon is like a golden comb, Caught in the tresses of the pines. Go quietly, lest unaware You find the leafless path that leads To where an older god than God Makes cruel music through the reeds. The lilies float like slender hands Towards a satyr-trampled brink. With crowns of oakleaves in their hair The shouting fauns come down to drink. Not Innocency’s self shall walk These breathless ways and shall not see The wine-stained lips and dangerous eyes, The swart-faced folk of Arcady; And lovers, who have wandered through The clover-purple evening’s peace, Have seen, deep-breasted, insolent, The mocking loveliness of Greece — Have heard the lawless bugles sing From that defiant Paradise, And glimpsed, like moonlight through the trees, The glory of unearthly eyes. And never shall the watcher seek His tender human loves again; For marble-white, with singing lips, The woodmaids glimmer through his brain. Go quietly. The tall gods here Would wear your beauty like a flower, To crush with jests and cast aside In one unpitying, splendid hour.