Wild Garden

by Bliss Carman




The round moon hangs above the rim
Of silent and soft-shadowed trees,
And all the earth is fey and dim
In a blue veil of mysteries.

On such a night one must believe


The Golden Age returns again
With lyric beauty, to retrieve
The joyance we have lost in vain.

And down the wooded aisles, behold,
What dancers through the dusk appear!


Piping their ardor as of old,
They bring immortal rapture near.

A moment on the brink of night
They tread their transport in the dew,
And to the rhythm of their delight

Old sorceries are made anew.