On Persian Hills
On Persian hills the Moon lights shadowed roses
Still as stone walls; their pale dream-swept faces
Hang in soft clusters weary and dusty grey.
A lattice lies wide open on those hills;
Who looks upon that carven soundless scene—
The Tree, the Peacock and the shining Moon?
It is jet lark that small high window square;
The shadowed roses dream, the Moon is still;
Without a sound the Peacock now has flown.
Still as stone walls; their pale dream-swept faces
Hang in soft clusters weary and dusty grey.
A lattice lies wide open on those hills;
Who looks upon that carven soundless scene—
The Tree, the Peacock and the shining Moon?
It is jet lark that small high window square;
The shadowed roses dream, the Moon is still;
Without a sound the Peacock now has flown.
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