The Moon at Dawn
A. Galsworthy
When, every dawn, the homeless breeze
Creeps back to wake the sleeping trees,
The moon steals down and no one sees!
Yes! every morn, no watcher there,
She turns that face, once angel fair,
And smiles, as only harlots dare!
I saw her once, the insatiate moon.
Go stealing, coiffed with orange hood.
From Night, her lover, still in swoon —
All wanton she, who chaste was wooed!