Claire De Lune.

(From the French of Paul Verlaine).

The pale moon shining through the trees
Illumines every bough,
There, 'neath the leafy canopies
Your voice makes music now
O best-beloved.
Mirrored within the pool's dark glass
A willow's grace doth show
Etched in black lines, where shadows pass
The wind is keening low,
It is the hour of dreams.
The tenderness and glory of the moon
Have made a rapt still loveliness descend
From the blue firmament where soon
Her sweet way she will wend:
It is the hour of love, my heart.

—Patrice Morant.