Classic Poem

When, at the dawn, the homeless breeze
Creeps back to wake the sleeping trees,
The moon steals down and no one sees!

Yes! in the morn, no watcher there,
She turns a face, once angel fair,
And smiles as only wantons dare!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I saw her once, th' insatiate moon
Go stealing, coiffed in orange hood,
From Night, her lover, still in swoon—
All wicked she, who once was good!