On every wind there comes the dolorous cry
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Of change, and rumour vast of fair things sped,
And old perfections loudly doomed to die;
Axes agleam and running torches red,
And voices shrilling, "The old world is dead!"
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Yet little heed to all this noise I pay,
But lift my eyes where, walking overhead,
The moon goes silently upon her way.
For what concern with all this change have I,
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Knowing the same wild words of old were said?
For change, too, changes not; yea, this old sky
Watches mankind the same vain pathway tread.
So long ago thrones crashed, and nations bled,
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Yet the old world stole back at close of day,
And on the morrow men rose up to wed—
The moon goes silently upon her way.
Abbess of all yon cloistered worlds on high,
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Upon my heart your benediction shed,
Help me to put the idle turmoil by,
And on the changeless be my spirit fed;
O be my footsteps on that pathway led
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Where Beauty steals among the stars to pray;
And, sorrowing earth, in this be comforted—
The moon goes silently upon her way.
Prince, toss not too uneasy on your bed,
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Fearing your little crown be reft away;
Wear this undying wreath I weave instead—
The moon goes silently upon her way.