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The yellow moon is a dancing phantom
—Down secret ways of the flowing shade;
And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper
Where the alders wave.

Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper:
—Only the moon is a dancing blade
That leads a host of the Crescent warriors
To a phantom raid.

Out of the Lands of Faerie a summons,
—A long, strange cry that thrills through the glade:—
The gray-green glooms of the elm are stirring,
Newly afraid.

LasTheard, white music, under the olives
—Where once Theocritus sang and played—
Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder,
O moon-white maid!
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