The moon is riding high, the stars are shining
  But very palely, through the clear blue light;
The plain is empty, and the circling mountains
  Rise cold and far through swathes of mist to-night.

There is no wind astir, the serried rushes
  Stand straight as lances round the glassed lagoon;
Within still waters grows a single lily,
  A great white flower of solitude, the moon.

My shadow that seemed taller than the mountains
  Lies gathered at my feet, a pool of ink,
And as I move towards the sombre reed-beds
  I watch it spill and trickle, spread and shrink.