Above the Dock
T. E. Hulme
Above the quiet dock in mid night,
Tangled in the tall mast’s corded height,
Hangs the moon. What seemed so far away
Is but a child’s balloon, forgotten after play.
To the Moon
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing Heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,—
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
Home-Coming
Léonie Adams
When I stepped homeward to my hill,
Dusk went before with quiet tread;
The bare laced branches of the trees
Were as a mist about its head.
Upon its leaf-brown breast the rocks
Like great grey sheep lay silentwise,
Between the birch trees’ gleaming arms,
The faint stars trembled in the skies.
The white brook met me half-way up,
And laughed as one that knew me well,
To whose more clear than crystal voice
The frost had joined a crystal spell.
The skies lay like pale-watered deep,
Dusk ran before me to its strand
And cloudily leaned forth to touch
The moon’s slow wonder with her hand.
Moon
By Kathleen Jamie
Last night, when the moon
slipped into my attic room
as an oblong of light,
I sensed she’d come to commiserate.
It was August. She traveled
with a small valise
of darkness, and the first few stars
returning to the northern sky,
and my room, it seemed,
had missed her. She pretended
an interest in the bookcase
while other objects
stirred, as in a rock pool,
with unexpected life:
strings of beads in their green bowl gleamed,
the paper-crowded desk;
the books, too, appeared inclined
to open and confess.
Being sure the moon
harbored some intention,
I waited; watched for an age
her cool gaze shift
first toward a flower sketch
pinned on the far wall
then glide down to recline
along the pinewood floor,
before I’d had enough. Moon,
I said, We’re both scarred now.
Are they quite beyond you,
the simple words of love? Say them.
You are not my mother;
with my mother, I waited unto death.
Moon Poem 🌙
Beneath the silver moon so bright,
It paints the world with gentle light.
A quiet glow across the sky,
Where dreams awaken and spirits fly.
The stars surround its shining face,
Like diamonds scattered into space.
It watches over land and sea,
A timeless symbol of mystery.
The moon whispers through the night,
Filling hearts with pure delight.
Its beauty calms the restless soul,
And makes the broken spirit whole.
When darkness covers every way,
The moon arrives and softly stays.
A faithful friend above the skies,
Reflecting hope through gentle eyes.
Oh lovely moon, so calm and fair,
You fill the night with magic rare.
Forever shining from above,
A beacon of peace, dreams, and love. 🌙✨
Ode to the Moon
by rellosh
Oh, beautiful moon
Of ivory dust
Molded by angels’ hands
Brilliant orb of night
Silhouette of day
Floating in the sky
Like ice on a glass of water
Oh, holy moon
Wax and wane each month
From perfect body of light
To nothing but
A memory
Like the smile of
The Cheshire cat
Incapable of captivity
But in the mind of
The eye of
The beholder
Oh, eternal moon
Following the earth
As a shadow would
Not physically infallible
But with steadfast purpose
You shine for every one of us
No matter where we are
Bright Star
by John Keats (1819)
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
The Harvest Moon
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1838)
It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.
