and pieces of poems where the poets celebrate the beauty and enigma of the moon.
They are apt to be enjoyed on the Moon Festival.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
moving Moon went up the sky.
And nowhere did abide;
Softly she was going
And a star or two beside-
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
little dog laughed to see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
nursery rhyme from the 1700's
thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing,
like a Joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
Go No More A-Roving
Though the night was made for loving
And the day returns
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon
Lady Moon, your horns point toward the east;
Shine, be increased:
Moon, your horns point toward the west;
Wane, be at rest.
see the moon,
The moon sees me
God bless the moon,
And God bless me.
new moon, of no importance
lingers behind as the yellow sun glares
gone beyond the sea's edge;
earth smokes blue;
the new moon, in cool height
above the blushes,
brings a fresh fragrance of heaven to our senses.
D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)
silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one
the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his
kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy
coat the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
Walter de la Mare
saw the new moon late yestreen,
Wi' the auld moon in her arm:
And if ye
gang to sea, maister,
I fear we'll suffer harm.
the Scottish ballad Sir Patrick Spens
As a pale phantom with a lamp
Ascends some ruined haunted
So glides the moon along the damp
Mysterious chambers of the air.
hidden in cloud, and now revealed,
As if this phantom, full of pain,
by the crumbling walls concealed,
And at the windows seen again.
at last, serene and proud
In all the splendour of her light,
She walks the
terraces of cloud,
Supreme as Empress of the Night.
look, but recognize no more
Objects familiar to my view;
The very pathway
to my door
Is an enchanted avenue.
things are changed. One mass of shade,
The elm-trees drop their curtains down;
palace, park, and colonnade
I walk as in a foreign town.
very ground beneath my feet
Is clothed with a diviner air;
paves the silent street
And glimmers in the empty square.
Underneath there lies
The common life of everyday;
Only the spirit glorifies
its own tints the sober grey.
vain we look, in vain uplift
Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind;
but what we have the gift
Of seeing; what we bring we find.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow