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.