| THY beauty haunts me heart and soul, | |
| Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright; | |
| Thy beauty makes me like the child | |
| That cries aloud to own thy light: | |
| The little child that lifts each arm | 5 |
| To press thee to her bosom warm. | |
| |
| Though there are birds that sing this night | |
| With thy white beams across their throats, | |
| Let my deep silence speak for me | |
| More than for them their sweetest notes: | 10 |
| Who worships thee till music fails, | |
| Is greater than thy nightingales. | |