The Star-Treader and Other Poems

How is it, O moon, that melting,

Unstintedly, prodigally,

On the peaks' hard majesty,

Till they seem diaphanous

And fluctuant as a veil,

And pouring thy rapturous light

Through pine, and oak, and laurel,

Till the summer-sharpened green,

Softening and tremulous,

Is a lustrous miracle—

How is it that I find,

When I turn again to thee,

That thy lost and wasted light

Is regained in one magic breath?