Craven Langstroth Betts
To The Moon Flower
PALE, climbing disk, who dost lone vigil keep
When all the flower-heads droop in drowsy swoon;
When lily bells fold to the zephyr’s tune,
And wearied bees are lapped in sugared sleep;
What secret hope is thine? What purpose deep?
Art thou enamored of the siren moon
That thus thy white face from the god of noon
Thou coverest, while his chariot rounds the steep?