Through rifts of cloud the moon’s soft silver slips;
by Ina D. Coolbrith
A little rain has fallen with the night,
Which from the emerald under-sky still drips
Where the magnolias open, broad and white.
So near my window I might reach my hand
And touch these milky stars, that to and fro
Wave, odorous. . . .Yet ’t was in another land-
How long ago, my love, how long ago!