To the Moonflower

Pale, climbing disk, who dost lone vigil keep
When all the flower-heads droop in drowsy swoon;
When lily bells fold to the zephyr’s tune,
And wearied bees are lapped in sugared sleep;
What secret hope is thine? What purpose deep?
Art thou enamored of the siren moon
That thus thy white face from the god of noon
Thou coverest, while his chariot rounds the steep?
Poor, frail Endymion! know her lustre’s line
Is but the cold, reflected majesty
That clothes the great sun’s regent-borrowed shine
Of him who yields restricted ministry,
Thy bright creator; he did ne’er design
The proud, false queen should fealty take of thee!