Yon slender moon lends tender light,

Caressing ‘pon our shoulders

Meek, little cares, once unawares,

Now we speak, ‘mongst trees and boulders

Of her silvered, slivered shares,

Which she herself does borrow,

Though tempts us think it be inborn,

As gray garments of sorrow

Must be internally there worn;

Though, friend, why thinks us sadness

From the moon doth so depart,

When that gray ray with which we dress

Had a vibrant, starry start?

Nay, ‘tis but a sun we can behold

And read within its face,

Craterous tales unfold,

Revealing traits of utter grace—

That you and I, my friend, are few,

Who ‘waken to the moon,

Whilst many others slumber through

Only to sun attune,

And, thus, are lost,

As snow ‘mongst frost,

For ne’er losing the way;

Those wand’rers tossed

Numbly from day to day.

Ah, summer, as the oak,

Is about to fall,

With coy pines only dressed,

Shiver in mountain smoke,

Within our breast

Bending to nature’s call.

And, though the tree,

Uprooted in despair,

Doth not bend to thee,

It lends us visage fair,

Which, if ‘twere straight,

Would thus abate

The moon’s good, kindly glare.

-Poyetikos