At the mid-hour of twilight, in the time
When from the west the broken moon doth climb
Pale in the sky, silent and proud and white
Mary stands in the black of night.
Waits till the moonbeams, lifting their gleam above
The mountain’s battlements,from night’s face remove
The shroud of darkness,waits till their lustrous flow
Bathes her limbs in a silver glow.
Now sleeps the garden;the thieving hands of the breeze
Each happy blossom’s perfume shamelessly seize;
Tranquil the night is sleeping; but Mary’s eyes
Watch the night in the moon-washed skies.
Little by little behind the willow’s boughs
The moonbeams thievishly steal, and through the drowse
Of the black night,as Mary seeks them,astir,
Eagerly gaze they, seeking her.
Darkness ghthers her skirts, and headlong flees
From the moon’s radiance unto the distant trees;
Sweet,sweet is night; the moonlight dewy and deep
Floods the spirit and bulls asleep
Translate by A.J.Arberry