Earth-tethers are fragile by moon-rippled water--
Contralto its music--In still melodies
Beauty is calling, "Oh, sing for me, daughter!"
The harp of the white birch is strummed by the breeze.
The harvest moon poised on the crest of the mountain--
Silent--composes a sonnet of night
Then dances to bathe in the scarlet rimmed fountain
With virgin star-maidens. I sing my delight!
With a song of fulfillment, I sail to an islet
To view my Bright Harvest beyond its far peaks.
With peace my companion and beauty my pilot
In the still voice of autumn Infinity speaks.
