Behind the western bars
The shrouded day retreats,
And unperceived the stars
Steal to their sovran seats.And whiter grows the foam,
The small moon lightens more;
And as I turn me home,
My shadow walks before.
The constellated sounds
ran sprinkling on earth’s floor
As the dark vault above
with stars was spangled o’er.
Poetry's magic lies in the imagery which satifies even without interpretation.. it is accepted as easily as it was created.