To the Moonflower

Pale, climbing disk, who dost lone vigil keep When all the flower-heads droop in drowsy swoon; When lily bells fold to the zephyr’s tune, And wearied bees are lapped in sugared sleep; What secret hope is thine? What purpose deep? Art thou enamored of the siren moon That thus thy white face from the god of noon Thou coverest, while his chariot rounds the steep? Poor, frail Endymion! know her lustre’s line Is but the cold, reflected majesty That clothes the great sun’s regent-borrowed shine Of him who yields restricted ministry, Thy bright creator; he did ne’er design The proud, false queen should fealty take of thee!