The Moon.

It is a lovely sight to see
The moon, in all her majesty,
Swim in the liquid sky;
I do not think that earth will give
A fairer sight, though long I live,
To me before I die.

(And when I die, who know what moon
Will be the nightly offered boon
Of beauty then to me—
What glimmering silent phantom then
Too beautiful for eyes of men,
What wraith that moon will be?

Alone, aloft, she fills the night
With the still vapour of her light,
Her lucent quietude—
Strange, and forever strange she seems.
Remote and passionless, who deems
Joy and delight infertile dreams,
Sorrow an empty mood.

Such beauty should make men afraid.
Gazing on her, I am new made—
I am a thing of fear,
I feel a quicker, keener pain,
She gives me back my joy again,
Most inexpressibly dear.

J. C. B