Moonlight

MOONLIGHT Moonlight is borrowed light. Unless a mirror is lent life bright From a golden-voiced source Its own cadence is coarse. It has no life of its own. Thus also the moon, locked alone In black magnificence, her rule Is of an empty kingdom cool, With only dead dust - unless The daylight’s king should bless Her with words that wake the night: His radiant beaming smiles of light. And so when this sleeping earth Is wrapped in moonlight, it is worth Recall that these are borrowed clothes, Not warm raiment, but garments like those Loose shrouds which have as such No colour, and are cold to the touch. So, night’s silver trees, mercuric lakes, Grey flowers, aged white snowflakes, Are all made older, locked in an uneasy wait For the dawn’s opening of the golden gate.