I.
OVER the moss-grown ruin silently steals the moon,
Gently her way pursuing, while to the same old tune
Winds through the casements come sighing,
Rustle the clinging vines,
Advertisement
Fall withered leaves all a-dying,
Dreamily whisper the pines.
II.
Ever the moon comes glowing, seeking to find the night,
Like a maid bent upon wooing seeks she the gloom in his flight;
Winds through the half-fallen casements
Murmur the same old tune;
Darkness is fleeing Adonis,
Aphrodite, the moon!
F. A. T.
Want to keep up with breaking news?
Subscribe to our email newsletter.
Read more in News
Communication.
