III.

The azure curtain of God's house Draws back, and hangs star-pinned to space; I hear the low, large moon arouse, I see her lift her languid face.

I see her shoulder up the east, Low-necked, and large as womanhood,— Low-necked, as for some ample feast Of gods, within yon orange-wood.

She spreads white palms, she whispers peace,— Sweet peace on earth for evermore; Sweet peace for two beneath the trees, Sweet peace for one within the door.

The bent stream, like a scimitar Flashed in the sun, sweeps on and on, Till sheathed like some great sword new-drawn In seas beneath the Carib's star.

The high moon climbs the sapphire hill, The lone sweet lady prays within; The crickets keep a clang and din — They are so loud, earth is so still!

And two men glare in silence there! The bitter, jealous hate of each Has grown too deep for deed or speech — The lone, sweet lady keeps her prayer.

The vast moon high through heaven's field In circling chariot is rolled; The golden stars are spun and reeled, And woven into cloth of gold.

The white magnolia fills the night With perfume, as the proud moon fills The glad earth with her ample light From out her awful sapphire hills.

White orange blossoms fill the boughs Above, about the old church door,— They wait the bride, the bridal vows,— They never hung so fair before.

The two men glare as dark as sin! And yet all seems so fair, so white, You would not reckon it was night,— The while the lady prays within.