Mary

At the mid-hour of twilight, in the time
When from the west the broken moon doth climb
Pale in the sky, silent & proud & white
Mary stands in the black of night.

Waits till the moon beams, lifting their gleam above
The mountain's battlements, from night's face remove
The shroud of darkness, waits till their lustrous flow
Bathes her limbs in a silver glow.

Now sleeps the garden, the thieving hands of the breeze
Each happy blossom's perfume shamelessly seize;
Tranquil the night is sleeping; but Mary's eyes
Watch the night in the moon-washed skies.

Little by little behind the willow's boughs
The moonbeams thievishly steal, & through the douse
Of the black night, as Mary seeks them, astir,
Eagerly gaze they, seeking her.

Darkness gathers her skirts, & head long flees
From the moon's radiance unto the distant trees;
Sweet, sweet is night; the moon light dewy & deep
Floods the spirit & lulls asleep.

Amidst the garden, happy & whispering hush
Quivers the silken moon in the brook; a thrush
Bursts into song this instant, & from the bough
Carols:" Mary is bathing now."