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Amy Lowell - Loon Point
Work rating: Low

Softly the water ripples 
  Against the canoe`s curving side, 
Softly the birch trees rustle 
  Flinging over us branches wide. 

Softly the moon glints and glistens 
  As the water takes and leaves, 
Like golden ears of corn 
  Which fall from loose-bound sheaves, 

Or like the snow-white petals 
  Which drop from an overblown rose, 
When Summer ripens to Autumn 
  And the freighted year must close. 

From the shore come the scents of a garden, 
  And between a gap in the trees 
A proud white statue glimmers 
  In cold, disdainful ease. 

The child of a southern people, 
  The thought of an alien race, 
What does she in this pale, northern garden, 
  How reconcile it with her grace? 

But the moon in her wayward beauty 
  Is ever and always the same, 
As lovely as when upon Latmos 
  She watched till Endymion came. 

Through the water the moon writes her legends 
  In light, on the smooth, wet sand; 
They endure for a moment, and vanish, 
  And no one may understand. 

All round us the secret of Nature 
  Is telling itself to our sight, 
We may guess at her meaning but never 
  Can know the full mystery of night. 

But her power of enchantment is on us, 
  We bow to the spell which she weaves, 
Made up of the murmur of waves 
  And the manifold whisper of leaves.
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