63 THE EAVESDROPPERS

The heart of the twilight is troubled; and there Where the stubbled fields bathe in colorless air, And show as the chin of a giant unshorn, Dog-weary, and dreaming of days unborn, The east is perturbed; and night kindles to morn. Wide world, that wakes to each miracle Each dawn engenders, thou wilt not tell, If mother of me indeed thou art, How gladly and furtively I depart Master and lord of Phyllida’s heart. Hah, Lady Moon, so we meet again! I remember. Who silvered the window-pane, Climbed over heaped faggots with noiseless tread, Turned velvet the cobwebs that gleamed overhead, Stealthily, hearkening to all we said? Eavesdropper, keep my secret well! Remember the tales that old poets tell Of the Latmian hills, and a cave thereon Whereinto passed when each day was done— Eavesdropper!—not only Endymion. Ye will not tell of it. Nor will he, The owl that hoots now in yonder tree, And flutters his wings, with a watchful eye Bent through the boughs at a passer-by Who laughs, in the dawn ... and he wonders why.