 | A lover's diary |  |
117
[VI. The moon that was a crescent yesterday]
The moon that was a crescent yesterday,
Comes up so full of light
No cloud can touch her but her golden round
Spills over: 't is a night
Comes up so full of light
No cloud can touch her but her golden round
Spills over: 't is a night
118
To make the roughest sailor on the sea
Forget the chill, white foam,
And tattoo on his brawny arms the names
Of his wild crew at home.
Forget the chill, white foam,
And tattoo on his brawny arms the names
Of his wild crew at home.
A night to make sad housewives, all too long
Unpraised, take heart again,
And mend with some poor blushing shred of love
Their tattered lives. In vain
Unpraised, take heart again,
And mend with some poor blushing shred of love
Their tattered lives. In vain
Comes the full moon to those unfriended men
Whose lives are wastes of care;
No hearth,—no row of shining little heads
To think of, anywhere.
Whose lives are wastes of care;
No hearth,—no row of shining little heads
To think of, anywhere.
God help them! what is outward loveliness,
Unless within the mind
Some lovely memory all in shadow lies
Waiting to be defined!
Unless within the mind
Some lovely memory all in shadow lies
Waiting to be defined!
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