It Is Moonlight. Alone In The Silence I Ascend My Stairs Once More, While Waves, Remote In A Pale Blue Starlight, Crash On A White Sand Shore. It Is Moonlight. The Garden Is Silent. I Stand In My Room Alone. Across My Wall, From The Far-Off Moon, A Rain Of Fire Is Thrown . . . There Are Houses Hanging Above The Stars, And Stars Hung Under A Sea: And A Wind From The Long Blue Vault Of Time Waves My Curtain For Me . . . I Wait In The Dark Once More, Swung Between Space And Space: Before My Mirror I Lift My Hands And Face My Remembered Face. Is It I Who Stand In A Question Here, Asking To Know My Name? . . . It Is I, Yet I Know Not Whither I Go, Nor Why, Nor Whence I Came. It Is I, Who Awoke At Dawn And Arose And Descended The Stair, Conceiving A God In The Eye Of The Sun, In A Woman'S Hands And Hair. It Is I Whose Flesh Is Gray With The Stones I Builded Into A Wall: With A Mournful Melody In My Brain Of A Tune I Cannot Recall . . . There Are Roses To Kiss: And Mouths To Kiss; And The Sharp-Pained Shadow Of Death. I Remember A Rain-Drop On My Cheek, A Wind Like A Fragrant Breath . . . And The Star I Laugh On Tilts Through Heaven; And The Heavens Are Dark And Steep . . . I Will Forget These Things Once More In The Silence Of Sleep.