HE that is by Mooni now Sees the water-sapphires gleaming Where the River Spirit, dreaming, Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming   Under lute of leaf and bough!— Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is, Psalms from unseen wildernesses Deep amongst far hill-recesses—   He that is by Mooni now.

  Yea, for him by Mooni's marge Sings the yellow-hair'd September, With the face the gods remember, When the ridge is burnt to ember,   And the dumb sea chains the barge! Where the mount like molten brass is, Down beneath fern-feather'd passes Noonday dew in cool green grasses   Gleams on him by Mooni's marge.

  Who that dwells by Mooni yet, Feels in flowerful forest arches Smiting wings and breath that parches Where strong Summer's path of march is,   And the suns in thunder set! Housed beneath the gracious kirtle Of the shadowy water-myrtle— Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle,   He is safe by Mooni yet!

  Days there were when he who sings (Dumb so long through passion's losses) Stood where Mooni's water crosses Shining tracks of green-hair'd mosses,   Like a soul with radiant wings: Then the psalm the wind rehearses— Then the song the stream disperses— Lent a beauty to his verses,   Who to-night of Mooni sings.

  Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme! Certain days are not above me, Certain hearts have ceased to love me, Certain fancies fail to move me,   Like the effluent morning dream. Head whereon the white is stealing, Heart whose hurts are past all healing, Where is now the first, pure feeling?   Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme! . . .   Still to be by Mooni cool— Where the water-blossoms glister, And by gleaming vale and vista Sits the English April's sister,   Soft and sweet and wonderful! Just to rest beneath the burning Outer world—its sneers and spurning— Ah, my heart—my heart is yearning   Still to be by Mooni cool!