The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago—
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below—
Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde—
Her Cheek—a Beryl hewn—
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known—
Her Lips of Amber never part—
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will—
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star—
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door—
Her Bonnet is the Firmament—
The Universe—Her Shoe—
The Stars—the Trinkets at Her Belt—
Her Dimities—of Blue—
A Night or two ago—
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below—
Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde—
Her Cheek—a Beryl hewn—
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known—
Her Lips of Amber never part—
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will—
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star—
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door—
Her Bonnet is the Firmament—
The Universe—Her Shoe—
The Stars—the Trinkets at Her Belt—
Her Dimities—of Blue—
1 comment:
“And now she turns her perfect face upon the world below….” Just a couple of days ago, the poem tells us, the moon was looking away, but now she is looking down at us. Does she look down at me, I wonder, or am I just one of the multitude of lonely inhabitants of the world below who looks up in appreciation, but who, from her perspective, is just an insignificant a speck—one of many indistinguishable smudges on the world below? Still, I do like it when she turns my way. I feel alive and aware. I observe her and I hope—that is, I have faith—that she does indeed see me.
I bask in the glow of her light.
Today, I see my therapist. Today, our orbits cross. Today, she turns her face towards me.
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