by W. H. Davies
Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,
O thou fair moon, so close and bright;
Thy beauty makes me like the child
That cries aloud to own thy light;
The little child that lifts each arm
To press thee to her bosom warm.
Though there are birds that sing this night,
With thy white beams across their throats,
Let my deep silence speak for me
More than for them their sweetest notes;
Who worships thee ’till music fails
Is greater than thy nightingales.