In the deep hush of a star-jeweled night
I looked upon the pale face of the moon.
Far, far away I heard a lonely loon
Wailing its heart out, like a soul in fright.
How white the world was, bathed in that clean light,
As though it were a ghostly afternoon!
Niagaras of wonder poured their boon
And blessing on the earth in quiet might.

How can this repetition of an old
And deathless miracle be ever new?
Here was a story that night often told,
As morning tells the story of the dew.
And then I thought of Helen's hair of gold,
That never wearies us the long years through!