Page:Roses in Rain, by Lilian Wooster Greaves, 1910.pdf/44

 With a glamour of glory the forest surrounds. Making silver from sea-spray, and diamonds
 * from snow—

She’s the airiest fairiest fairy I know.

She makes pearls from the pebbles that lie
 * at our feet,

And a magical bower of each sylvan retreat, Where we gaze into eyes that look tender
 * and true,

And deem them—well—something far more
 * than mere blue;

Tor that witch of a Moon has her spell o’er
 * us thrown,

And our hearts and our loves are no longer
 * our own;

For the blue eyes have claimed them beyond
 * our recall—

Yes, the Moon is the witchingest witch of
 * them all.

We are deaf to the doubts that assailed us
 * before;

Our fearing and hoping and waiting are o’er. We bask in the beauty of moonshine and love, And worship devoutly th’ enchantress above. And what if to-morrow shall open our eyes? And the morning shall bring us the saddest surprise?