I.

White moons may come, white moons may go, She sleeps where wild wood blossoms blow, Nor knows she of the rosy June, Star-silver flowers o'er her strewn, The pearly paleness of the moon,-- Alas! how should she know!

The downy moth at evening comes To suck thin honey from wet blooms; Long, lazy clouds that swimming high Brood white about the western sky, Grow red as molten iron and lie Above the fragrant glooms.