The Moon and the Cloud

The trees were full of voices; the night was warm; 
A white cloud shaped like an arm lay across the sky,
Stars hung over its wrist in a starry chain,
And one star dropped and rushed down to darkness and death. 
I leaned from my window and looked, and I drew quick breath,
For the moon was rising eastwards; and lo, the Arm
Reached to the moon with fingers greedy to hold, 
To clutch as a miser does, though it could not harm
This pearl-white blossom, sickle-shaped, lightless, cold, 
About whose folded petals the star-bees swarm. 
The leaves talked on, and the breath of the night was balm; 
The moon rose up and lay in the open palm 
And gathered light therefrom, and my fear was nought, 
For the hand with menace and danger was nowise fraught. 
Brighter and brighter it grew, and slowly rose, 
Growing bright and warm as a girl's face grows 
Turned to her lover. Slowly it gathered light 
From the holding hand, and out of the fingers white
Slid, and shone free and alone in the whispering night.