The Moon
A goddess still she is, and still they pray,
in names they scarcely mutter, soft and low,
not knowing whom they beg. When after day
she rises, full of glory, rising high,
when splendid, red with blood, like martial queen,
she hangs above the waters, cruel and wise,
they know her, gaping-mouthed. Her sheen
is fair; her light will baffle fools,
and know her then they shall. And she,
as lunatic as all the world, and more,
shall swing extreme, of temperance free,
and never stand and stay 'tween more and less.
The children, too, shall know her, rhyming well
of lore their teachers lost in ancient days;
of man in moon and dogs who stories tell
we never shall be free, but endless night
new stories shall supply. And they shall yearn
to walk her dusty shores, where endless sea
of sun pours through abyss where starlight churns,
a byssal depth so deep it has no strand.
But once, a poet told me, and did not lie,
she shone above a garden, soft and clear,
where God ('tis said) did wait to die,
and wept through night of darkest dark.
Can any goddess rise on such a sight
and not be changed, though gods remain the same?
Yeah, sure, a glory now pervades her light;
the moon itself to newer life is changed.
