The moon flower, grown from a slip so slender,
   Has burst in a star bloom, full and white.
The air is filled with a perfume tender,
   The breath that blows from that garden height.
   Yet moments lag that should take their flight
On wings, like the wings of a homing dove,
   And the world goes wrong where it should go right,
For this is a night that is lost to love.

Again, like a queen, who would rashly spend her
   Dower of wealth in a single night,
The proud moon seems, on her track of splendor,
   Enriching the world with her silver light.
   She flings on the crest of each billow a bright
Pure gem, from the casket of jewels above.
   But I sigh as I gaze on the glorious sight,
"This is a night that is lost to love."

Oh, I would that the moon might never wend her
   Way through the skies in royal might,
Till the haughty heart of my lady surrender
   And the faithful love of a life requite.
   For the moon was made for a lover's delight;
And grayer than gloom must its luster prove
   To the soul that sighs under sorrow's blight,
"This is a night that is lost to love."


Fate, have pity upon my plight,
   And the heart of my lady to mercy move.
For the saddest words that youth can write
   Are, "This is a night that is lost to love."

Three Women. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago ; New York : W.B. Conkey Company, 1897.

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