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.
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