Classic Poem

What are the ghosts of trees at night
That move in moth-like, moony dress
Too dimly guessed for sight?
They are your thoughts within my brain
Stirring again;
They are my own mind's leafiness.

This moving blackness from the hill
Is not of air — it does not pass
Or bend the silver-lifted grass:
'Tis not so much:
Only a moth-like fancy still
In darkness, of your touch.

Quiet is on the weald. A fate
Is pensive in the starlight thin.
The waiting hour fills not from these
My lake of peace within,
But from the stillness where you wait
And hold your peace.