 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
81
THE MOON.
I know thee not, O Moon,—thou cavern'd realm,Sad satellite, a giant ash of death,
Where cold, alternate, and the sulphurous breath
Of ravaging volcanoes, overwhelm
All chance of life like ours,—art thou not
Some fallow world, after a reaping time
Of creatures' judgment, resting in thy lot?
Or haplier must I take thee for the blot
On God's fair firmament, the home of crime,
The prison-house of sin, where damnèd souls
Feed upon punishment?—O thought sublime,
That, amid Night's black deeds, when evil prowls
Thro' the broad world, then, watching sinners well,
Glares over all the wakeful eye of—Hell!
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |