The Robber

The Trees were taller than the night,
And through my window square,
Earth-stupefied, great oranges
Drowsed in the leaf-carved air.

Into that tree-top crowded dream
A white arm stretched, and soon
Those green-gold oranges were plucked,
Were sucked pale by the Moon.

And white and still that robber lay
On the frail boughs asleep,
Eating the solid substance through
In silence clear and deep.

Suddenly he went, and then
The wood was dark as death:
Come back, O robber; robber, come;
These grey trees are but breath:

These grey trees are but breath, the Night
Is a wind-walled, dream-filled Hall!
But on the mirror of the air
The wood wreathed dark and tall.

No movement and no sound there was
Within that silent House,
Behind a cloud the Robber laughed
In a mad white carouse.