Chapter XII

What counsel has the hooded moon Put in thy heart, my shyly sweet, Of Love in ancient plenilune, Glory and stars beneath his feet— A sage that is but kith and kin With the comedian Capuchin?

Believe me rather that am wise In disregard of the divine, A glory kindles in those eyes Trembles to starlight. Mine, O Mine! No more be tears in moon or mist For thee, sweet sentimentalist.