 | The Way of the Winepress |  |
THE MOON'S SECRET.
WHAT ails thee, moon, disconsolate thus to goAbout the pathless places of the sky,
Wandering at large? What (wondered oft have I)
Enforceth thee in Heaven's high portico
Thy silver shrine funereal to and fro
To urge, as 'twere a catafalque, piled high
With pomp commemorative? How and why,
Long have I pondered it; but now I know.
I know; for, in the visions of the night,
It hath to me discovered been that dead
And buried deep is God this many a year:
The stars the shining tears are that He shed,
In dying, hath, and in the heavenly height,
The moon's His mute, resplendent sepulchre.
| The Way of the Winepress | |