The Sadness of the Moon

Tonight the moon, by languorous memories obsessed,

Lies pensive and awake: a sleepless beauty amid

The tossed and multitudinous cushions of her bed,

Caressing with an abstracted hand the curve of her breast.

Surrendered to her deep sadness as to a lover, for hours

She lolls in the bright luxurious disarray of the sky —

Haggard, entranced — and watches the small clouds float by

Uncurling indolently in the blue air like flowers.

When now and then upon this planet she lets fall,

Out of her idleness and sorrow, a secret tear,

Some poet — an enemy of slumber, musing apart —

Catches in his cupped hands the unearthly tribute, all

Fiery and iridescent like an opal's sphere,

And hides it from the sun for ever in his heart.