A Feast of Lanterns, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1916]
Out of the glistening gorge below
The orient moon swims full and slow.
Hair dishevelled and sleeves blown wide,
Into the kind cool night I ride.
Faint winds free strange scents anew
Moon-paled maples bright with dew,
Dripping dreams from bough to bough
Sigh to my lute, Why sleepest thou?
Hands on the waiting strings fall mute.
Low my heart answers—"I am the lute."