Night and Moon

To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.

I imagine this midnight moment’s forest: Something else is alive Beside the clock’s loneliness And this blank page where my fingers move.

Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.

It snowed and snowed, the whole world over, Snow swept the world from end to end. A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.

The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out;

There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.

Here is the charming evening, the criminal’s friend; It comes like an accomplice, with stealthy tread. 7

The moon like a flower In heaven’s high bower, With silent delight, Sits and smiles on the night.

O! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,

 

Come into the garden, Maud,

 

All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.

 

The moving moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside.

Swiftly walk o’er the western wave, Spirit of Night!

When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain,

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden scepter o’er a slumbering world.

Good Morning—Midnight— I’m coming Home— Day—got tired of Me— How could I—of Him?

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r The moping owl does to the moon complain.

What hath night to do with sleep?

The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.

Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn on th’ Indian steep, From her cabin’d loophole peep.

In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candlelight. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.

The hornèd Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip.