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With a glamour of glory the forest surrounds.
Making silver from sea-spray, and diamonds
from snow—
She’s the airiest fairiest fairy I know.
She makes pearls from the pebbles that lie
at our feet,
And a magical bower of each sylvan retreat,
Where we gaze into eyes that look tender
and true,
And deem them—well—something far more
than mere blue;
Tor that witch of a Moon has her spell o’er
us thrown,
And our hearts and our loves are no longer
our own;
For the blue eyes have claimed them beyond
our recall—
Yes, the Moon is the witchingest witch of
them all.
We are deaf to the doubts that assailed us
before;
Our fearing and hoping and waiting are o’er.
We bask in the beauty of moonshine and love,
And worship devoutly th’ enchantress above.
And what if to-morrow shall open our eyes?
And the morning shall bring us the saddest
surprise?
