That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof
The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high
Are paved with the moon and these.
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