Wine of the Moon

Down in the darkness, azalea trees
Stand with the starlight awash at their knees—
Lady, tread softly! the cold silver moon
Has drowned your bright buckles and laps at you shoon.

For earth is a bowl with the stars on its rim,
The night-gods have filled it with wine to the brim,
A faun in the grasses lies piping a tune—
"Come drink, pretty lady! The wine of the moon!"

'Tis nymph-feet have trodden your draught out of flowers
That opened strange petals in perilous hours—
The hot perfumes quiver, the bright bubbles shine—
Come drink, pretty lady! of Arcadys wine.

As moths of the night wander close to the bowers,
And honey-sweet lips of carniverous flowers
Your dreams flutter seeking the dangerous draught—
Ah, hear! In the thicket, the faun-music laughed.

The earth is a chalice with stars on its rim
The wine of the moon sparkles bright at the brim—
Lady, beware! Lest your gay-winging soul
Fall and be drowned in the blind silver bowl.

Robin Hyde.