A Whisper to the Moon

Bend low, O Moon, for I fain would tell
My secret to thee, who can keep it well,
And not to the stars that laugh from the sky,
And mock at my pain as they pass me by.

Bend low, pale Moon! Her face is like thine—
Like thine from afar I can see it shine,
Now hid in a cloud, in a halo now—
She is thy kindred; and fickle art thou.