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My lady in her white silk shawl
Is like a lily dim,
Within the twilight of the room
Enthroned and kind and prim.
My lady! Pale gold is her hair.
Until she smiles her face
Is pale with far Hellenic moods,
With thoughts that find no place
In our harsh village of the West
Wherein she lives of late,
She's distant as far-hidden stars,
And cold — (almost!) — as fate.
But when she smiles she's here again
Rosy with comrade-cheer,
Puritan Bacchante made
To laugh around the year.
The merry gentle moon herself,
Heart-stirring too, like her,
Wakening wild and innocent love
In every worshipper.
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