John Drinkwater

Out of the Moon

Merely the moonlight
 
Piercing the boughs of my may-tree,
 
Falling upon my ferns;
 
Only the night
 
Touching my ferns with silver bloom
 
Of sea-flowers here in the sleeping city —
 
And suddenly the imagination burns
 
With knowledge of many a dark significant
 
doom
Out of antiquity,
 
Sung to hushed halls by troubadours
Who knew the ways of the heart because they
 
had seen
The moonlight washing the garden’s deeper
 
green
To silver flowers,
 
Falling with tidings out of the moon, as now
It falls on the ferns under my may-tree bough.
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