It is written on the arched sky; it looks out from every star. It is the poetry of Nature; it is that which uplifts the spirit within us.
I know not that there is anything in nature more soothing to the mind than the contemplation of the moon, sailing, like some planetary bark, amidst a sea of bright azure. The subject is certainly hackneyed; the moon has been sung by poet and poetaster. Is there any marvel that it should be so?
In another lifetime she must have owned the world, or been faithfully wed to some righteous king who wrote psalms beside moonlit streams.
God, eldest of Poets.
Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,/ In the dawn clouds flying,/ How good to go, light into light, and still/ Giving light, dying.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
All things in the world are singing a song, reciting a poem, inaudibly, to their surroundings, to the things they encounter.
War talk by men who have been in a war is always interesting; whereas moon talk by a poet who has not been in the moon is likely to be dull.
Here is our poetry, for we have pulled down the stars to our will.
