The Lyre

Autumn color and twilight moon,
Thin-blown leaves, and a twisted fire
Climbing the edge of the waves to the moon;
Slender and thin as a silver wire,
The voice of the moon, and the keen desire
That calls through birches and delicate laces
Of pale gold leaves, invisible faces
Of lovers that linger where daylight wanes
For the ancient showers and liquid rains
That the full moon pours through the fragile veins.

From the rose-colored dreams of day,
To the wave-swept sands of the shore,
Secretly, shadows grey
Steal to the edge of the shore,
Steal to the silver sands,
Lifting their fragile hands:
         Give us the twisted fire,
         Fill us with old desire,
         Moon of the maddened lyre,
         Moon of the singing wire!

The golden leaves grow grey and fall,
Twilight dies in the west,
The sea-gull turns to the wave for rest,
The land-bird dips to the sheltered nest,
But the shadows keep their quest,
And over the baréd breast,
The silver arrows fall;
Still the liquid fire
Wakes the old desire,
Liquid showers and liquid rains
Fill the heart and the beating veins.