The Thin Moonlight With Trickling Ray, Thridding The Boughs Of Silver May, Trembles In Beauty, Pale And Cool, On Folded Flower, And Mantled Pool. All In A Haze The Rushes Lean - And He - He Sits, With Chin Between His Two Cold Hands; His Bare Feet Set Deep In The Grasses, Green And Wet. About His Head A Hundred Rings Of Gold Loop Down To Meet His Wings, Whose Feathers Arched Their Stillness Through Gleam With Slow-Gathering Drops Of Dew. The Mouse-Bat Peers; The Stealthy Vole Creeps From The Covert Of Its Hole; A Shimmering Moth Its Pinions Furls, Grey In The Moonshine Of His Curls; 'Neath The Faint Stars The Night-Airs Stray, Scattering The Fragrance Of The May; And With Each Stirring Of The Bough Shadow Beclouds His Childlike Brow.