She floats beneath the moon’s soft-petaled light,
A hush upon her brow, serene and wide—
As if the stars had kissed her soul at night
And left their silver dreaming at her side.
The moon, like her, is pale with inward flame,
Not cold—but rich with light it does not spend;
So too her heart, though quiet, speaks her name
In beams that bend, but do not break nor end.
She moves—so still, the lilies seem to hear
A sacred silence trailing from her tread;
And all the dark is gentler when she's near,
As if the sky itself by her were led ...
O moonlit maid, thou art the moon made fair—
The heavens wear thee as their brightest prayer.
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