Loon Point
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oftly the water ripplesAgainst the canoe's curving side,Softly the birch trees rustleFlinging over us branches wide. Softly the moon glints and glistensAs the water takes and leaves,Like golden ears of cornWhich fall from loose-bound sheaves, Or like the snow-white petalsWhich drop from an overblown rose,When Summer ripens to AutumnAnd the freighted year must close. From the shore come the scents of a garden,And between a gap in the treesA proud white statue glimmersIn 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 beautyIs ever and always the same,As lovely as when upon LatmosShe watched till Endymion came. Through the water the moon writes her legendsIn light, on the smooth, wet sand;They endure for a moment, and vanish,And no one may understand. All round us the secret of NatureIs telling itself to our sight,We may guess at her meaning but neverCan 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 wavesAnd the manifold whisper of leaves.
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