Your hair was like a honey-coloured flame
Seen through a veil of silver when you came
And took me in your arms that winter night . . .
The moonlight, amorous of your golden hair,
Toyed with it softly, as a woman might
With some bright treasure, delicate and rare.
O, young Endymion, risen from the dead,
Born once again to beauty, O bright head!
The moon stoops low to kiss you, as of old;
Stoops graciously from her great throne of pearl,
With outstretched arms mysterious and cold . . .
But you have left her for a mortal girl.