Resting free beneath the moon,
a gnarled wood-sprite muse
draws strength from those deep lunar wells
its thoughts itself imbues.
The river under drifts and sings
its flow with gazed delight,
the circle of created things
all bask in lunar-light.
The trees, the flowers, the sky, the moon
all joined with mystic haze,
and this, the ancient forest tune
is what its soul obeys.