A poet gazes on the moon

From my garden I hear a woman singing;

But in sprite of her, I gaze on the moon.

And I believe that the moon looks at me also;

For a long silver ray penetrates to my eyes.

I have never thought of meeting the woman

Who sings in the neighboring garden;

My gaze ever follows the moon in the heavens.

The moon mirrors herself in the eyes of poets,

As in the brilliant wyes of the dragons,

The poets of the sea.

From my garden, I hear a woman singing.