The Summer Moon

How is it, O moon, that melting Unstintedly, prodigally, On the peaks' hard majesty, Till they seem diaphanous And fluctuant as a veil, And pouring thy rapturous light Through pine and oak and laurel, Till the summer-sharpened green, Softening and tremulous, Is a luster of liquid silver— How is it that I find, When I turn again to thee, That thy lost and wasted light Is regained in one magic breath ?