I said: “What is the use of sombre night?”
The Moon replied: “To frame my love-wan face.”
A fairy dame said: “That my fresh-wove lace
May on the grasses catch the Sun’s first light.”
“That we may keep with song our ancient rite,”
Croaked glistening frogs from their dank dwelling place.
“That I may halt,” a man said, “in my race,
And rest my eyes that are grown tired of sight.”
Your ebon frame, pale Moon, makes you more fair;
Weave, gentle neighbor; frogs, pipe loud your song;
Sad traveller, be dreamless sleep your share.
And I would have night twenty times as long,
And clasp my love in some dark bower where
The Day could never come to do us wrong.