Upon her moonlight throne she stood
Though flickering stars below did shine
Upon her head, of dark a hood
The mountains west her silent shrine.
Through waxed and waned still bright she stands
Above the lowly shadowed ground.
Her hair flows soft in silver strands
Beneath her starry mantle crowned.
She, silent, walks through sifting dreams
And howling wolves she orchestrates
The queen of silver trees and streams
Of moonlit havens she creates.
She, drifting, makes a guiding light
That crowns the trees in silver cold
Though dark may come and ...