See―the Sky has lent her jewel
To the Mountain for an hour
Has forgotten to be cruel
In a kind caprice of power
And the dusky bosom rounding
Wears the opals with an air
And a fine content abounding
In the sense of looking fair.
Now the Sky demands her crescent―
Brightest bauble of her store;
Slow it fadeth, evanescent,
And the Mountain smiles no more.