At Noon

By George Sterling

        How still the hour!
            Remote
    The day-moon seems to float
Above the mountains. Hath a ghostly flow'
Of Heaven released a petal-flake to drift
    Hither, thro' some blue rift?

        Ah! that the wind
            Took wing!
    That here a thrush might sing!
Rapture I seek, and grief alone I find,
Where quiet is, and forest-shadows fall
    Compassionate of all.

        O thou mine own—
            O Love!
    For what I know not of
I wait unhappy, and I wait alone.
Far is thy solitary rose, and far
    The mystic evening-star.

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