Then Strike the Moon


Then strike the moon in adient and sleepless night,
Oh lyard flight, to winter's gentle will impart,
White lifts on winds, wisps and weaves while darting darkly groves,
Then seize the brindled wood alike-the old heart arrowed split,
Roots will statue like great majesties,
Admit over the indelible flower its fate of impassive right,
With power whose limbs impressively twine,
Oh semblance of an endless noble,
Face thy crowns' empty gaze,
Fight in thy most high and beautiful corruption of light,
When stars modest against thy breast,
Lore of time sits upon a quiet unguarded ground,
Its frantic stillness found in the thick of it

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