H. C. Long

THROUGH the window near his bed,

On his tousled head,

All her magic on the sprite

Poured the Lady of the night.

Down a ladder came the lad

With the moonlight mad;

Down a ladder from his room

To the moonlit garden’s gloom.

White with light was every limb—

Moonlight maddened him

As he nakedly came down

To the garden’s moonlit frown.

Trod he underneath the trees

With a sprightly ease,

While the moonlight on his face

Lingered with a wingèd grace.

Thus he came to know the smart

In the trembling heart,

When that cruel bee, the moon,

Stings one in her midnight noon.