Pastoral

The long sun paints slow patches on the lawn
and slyly sparkles on the smooth, cold pond -
the shadows darken in the shrub beyond;
the sun, that all the drowsy daytime wooed
this very garden changes its bright mood
and like a lover scorned, hurt, pale and torn,
retreats to let the moon take over; borne
on its sheer excellence, the garden turns
into the Eden for which each man yearns.
I step inside, as lightly as a faun -
my hooves would leave no print, could I but take
your hand, and dreamily, yet wide awake
dance past the pool of moonlight to the wood
and find the open places that withstood
shy sadness' shadows, and the silent lake,
and on its shore we'd sit and stare, and make
our joyful offerings - can't I incite
you to be glad of this enchanted night
and stay until it's broken by the dawn?