In a September Night

There the moon leans out and blesses
All the dreamy hills below:
Here the willows wash their tresses
Where the water-lilies blow
In the stream that glideth slow.

High in heaven, in serried ranges,
Cloud-wreaths float through pallid light,
Like a flock of swans that changes
In the middle Autumn night
North for South in ordered flight.

What know ye, who hover yonder,
More than I, of that veiled good
Whither all things tend, I wonder,
That ye follow the wind's mood
In such patient quietude?