The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
I secretly assumed, as poets do, The duty on me to define the moon.
And he beholds the moon; like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.
A bird half wakened in the lunar noon Sang halfway through its little inborn tune.
notice the convulsed orange inch of moon perching on this silver minute of evening
When I think about myself, my thought seeks itself in the ether of a new space. I am on the moon as others are on their balconies. I participate in planetary gravitation in the fissures of my mind.
I often write about the moon, and more often than not, it is to symbolise a person, or a quality.
I see the moon like a clipped piece of silver. Like gilded bees the stars cluster round her.
At night, the moon, a pregnant woman, walks cautiously over the slippery heavens.
The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.
I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky, And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.
I suppose there were moonless nights and dark ones with but a silver shaving and pale stars in the sky, but I remember them all as flooded with the rich indolence of a full moon.
