The wasting helve of the moon rode into heaven
Over the bulk of the hills.
There was a smell of wet grass and lilac,
And the vast brooding symphony
Of the million-noted little night things,
Rising and falling in a constant ululation,
And inhabiting the heart
With steady unconscious certitude.
The pallid light drowned out the stars,
It lay like silence on the earth,
It dripped through the leafy web
Of the young maples,
Printing the earth with swarming moths
Of elvish light.