Classic Poem

The rosy mist stilly polishes the round mirror,
The moon;
Golden her face

Reflecting the cool sweet glory of a
Baby sun
When dangling

His short golden arms in the cradle of the sky
After night
Gave him birth,

And herself died as day dies to see the moon,
This golden
Rose-washed stone

That the unseen hand puts on the crown of night
Beside it puts
Bits of white--

The star-jewels like million fancies, worshipping
The goddess
Of dream.