The moon puts out her face at a rift between the trees,
Which do not lift one drooping leaf, this night of June.
There is no lazy breeze to set them clashing adrift.
Thin gleams of silver rise and break in the air,
Fireflies — here and there.
Forest of blue masses suddenly quivering with rapid points of white,
Are the forests beneath the sea where no breeze passes
As still as you to-night?
The moon puts out her face at a rift between the trees;
Through my window, the bed cut evenly with diagonal shafts of light,
Is a boat rocking out adrift.
Under it bend the silver tips of the dark blue coral trees,
And fireflies like glass fish
Drift and ripple upwards in the breeze.