The Secret Splendour

The white of the moon

Glints in the wood,

Each bough and bole

Wafts a vague tune

Which leaves overbrood.....

O love of my soul!

The lake has set

 A mirror deep

 For the silhouette

Of willows a-lour

Where the winds weep.

It's the dream-hour.

A tender and vast

Solace has come,

Downward cast

From the star-lit Opaline dome.

 Hour exquisite!

1955

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