by Paul Verlaine
The white moon
Gleams in the wood;
From every branch
There comes a voice
Beneath the bower . . .
O my love.
The pond reflects,
Shimmering mirror,
The silhouette
Of the dim willow
Where the wind laments . . .
Let us dream, it is the hour.
Vast and tender
An appeasement
Seems to lower
From the firmament
Star-bedecked . . .
Exquisite hour.
***
