1.

Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go

Over those hoary crests, divinely led! —

Art thou that huntress of the silver bow,

Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread

Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,

Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow,

Where hunter never climb’d — secure from dread?

How many antique fancies have I read

Of that mild presence! and how many wrought!

Wondrous and bright,

Upon the silver light,

Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!
2.

What art thou like? — Sometimes I see thee ride

A far-bound galley on its perilous way,

Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray; —

Sometimes behold thee glide,

Cluster’d by all thy family of stars,

Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide,

Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars; —

Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep,

Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,

Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep,

To catch the young Endymion asleep —

Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch! —
3.

Oh, thou art beautiful, howe’er it be!

Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named;

And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed

A silver idol, and ne’er worshipp’d thee! —

It is too late — or thou should’st have my knee —

Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,

And not divine the crescent on thy brows! —

Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon,

Behind those chestnut boughs,

Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;

I will be grateful for that simple boon,

In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet,

And bless thy dainty face when’er we meet.
4.

In nights far gone — ay, far away and dead —

Before Care-fretted, with a lidless eye —

I was thy wooer on my little bed,

Letting the early hours of rest go by,

To see thee flood the heaven with milky light,
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