Both in a bit of a fragmentary state.
The waxing moon upon the hill
enthroned was ruling shadowed night,
where ghostly shades with phantom will
alone were walking, hid from sight
and only heard, like gentle hush
within the leaves of creaking trees.
The river bloomed with silver blush,
reflecting royal argency,
a modest mistress newly kissed
by light of moon, her love and king.
The shades were moving in her mist,
where ghosts their shushing voices bring
to whisper on her moonlit sands.
The trees like crickets violins
were playing with their branching hands
in songs of long-forgotten sins,
in melodies of dreams and sighs.
They sang of lights that soar unseen,
they sang of words that never die,
they sang it for the river-queen,
in honor of the moon their king.
A sweeter song cannot be heard,
nor can our human voices sing
that melody in tune or word.
Then rose the moon in grandest state
from hilltop throne, with solemn face,
and, king-like still with royal gait,
went marching at procession-pace.
Once long ago was a princess in a tower,
her prison built of the ice formed from her tears;
she sat and sighed in her far and distant bower
amidst a field of the thorns grown out of her fears.
On starry nights she would look up at their wonder
and sing a song of some dream her heart had had;
the stars, soon hidden by the clouds that rolled in thunder,
would sing responsion quiet, clear and sad.