With eyes that show no pity, no remorse,
The moon looks down upon this lonely glen;
She steals the gold from buttercup and gorse,
And gives her worthless silver to the fen.
However poets sing, she is unmoved
By slow tears on a well-beloved’s face:
And though by amorous youth she is most loved,
For love her barrenness can find no place.
And though the thicket teems and grasses wave,
And though the stream may chant and breezes sigh,
Her cool regard is one for cot or grave
As all impartially she passes by.
Her wrinkles are not caused by human grief,
Though many a heart-wrung cry to her may rise.
She is not sad for autumn’s fallen leaf,
Nor has eclipse of empires made her wise.
We populate the glade with memory’s host
And voices for long silent throng our ears;
Only the moon abides, a callous ghost,
That, mocking, haunts the prison of our years.
Mona’s Herald 17.4.62