XII. 

 The moon flower, grown from a slip so slender, Has burst in a star bloom, full and white. The air is filled with a perfume tender, The breath that blows from that garden height. Yet moments lag that should take their flight On wings, like the wings of a homing dove, And the world goes wrong where it should go right, For this is a night that is lost to love. 

Has burst in a star bloom, full and white.

The breath that blows from that garden height.

Yet moments lag that should take their flight

And the world goes wrong where it should go right,

 Again, like a queen, who would rashly spend her Dower of wealth in a single night, The proud moon seems, on her track of splendor, Enriching the world with her silver light. She flings on the crest of each billow a bright Pure gem, from the casket of jewels above. But I sigh as I gaze on the glorious sight, "This is a night that is lost to love." 

Dower of wealth in a single night,

Enriching the world with her silver light.

She flings on the crest of each billow a bright

But I sigh as I gaze on the glorious sight,

 Oh, I would that the moon might never wend her Way through the skies in royal might, Till the haughty heart of my lady surrender And the faithful love of a life requite. For the moon was made for a lover's delight; And grayer than gloom must its luster prove To the soul that sighs under sorrow's blight, "This is a night that is lost to love." 

Way through the skies in royal might,

And the faithful love of a life requite.

For the moon was made for a lover's delight;

To the soul that sighs under sorrow's blight,

 

 L'Envoi. 

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