On a Nightingale in April

The yellow moon is a dancing phantom
Down secret ways of the flowing shade;
And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper
Where the alders wade.

Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper:
Only the moon is a dancing blade
That leads a host of the Crescent warriors
To a phantom raid.

Out of the lands of Faerie a summons,
A long strange cry that thrills thro' the glade: —
The grey-green glooms of the elm are stirring,
Newly afraid.

Last heard, white music, under the olives
Where once Theocritus sang and play'd —
Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder —
O moon-white maid!