Far From the Things of Man
It was the very cusp of day,
The last vestiges of night—
The cratered-moon, it sipped away,
And with it too, its light.
The sleepy sun was yawning
As the beams did slowly wake—
Appropriate for such a thing
As the day’s auspicious break!
What of night, now dreaming?
It will come the morrow rise—
Even as the sun retires,
And the winged-moon, it flies!
Smiling o’er a restless sea,
Beyond the things of man—
Proudly doth the moon appear,
For it has always been.
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