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The Moon, White…
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The moon, white, Shines in the trees: From each bright Branch a voice flees...
Paul Verlaine
The moon, white,
Shines in the trees:
From each bright
Branch a voice flees
Beneath leaves that move,
O well-beloved.
The pools reflect
A mirror’s depth,
The silhouette
Of willows’ wet
Black where the wind weeps…
Let us dream, time sleeps.
It seems a vast, soothing,
Tender balm
Is falling
From heaven’s calm
Empurpled by a star…
It’s the exquisite hour.
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