By George Sterling
How still the hour!
The day-moon seems to float
Above the mountains. Hath a ghostly flow'
Of Heaven released a petal-flake to drift
Hither, thro' some blue rift?
Ah! that the wind
That here a thrush might sing!
Rapture I seek, and grief alone I find,
Where quiet is, and forest-shadows fall
Compassionate of all.
O thou mine own—
For what I know not of
I wait unhappy, and I wait alone.
Far is thy solitary rose, and far
The mystic evening-star.