Moon, Moon!

Cold, pale spectre of night's eye
Bathing the earth with frosty light.
How eloquently you speak of the skulls,
Of icy perfection, of doomed lovers,
Of creeping animal fear.

Goddess of the wolves, speak to me
Of what you scry through drawn curtains,
The promises exchanged under your light,
Of the black deeds that Father Night ushers forth,
And the convocation of Earth's dark children.

Shall I follow Actaeon,
Drawn by your icy beauty to the hounds?
You cold and hateful bloodied maiden!
You freeze my veins with your chilly gaze.
Avaunt, avaunt into the land where the dead weep!

Stay, oh stay!
The night devours me,
Infinite void which blackens my eyes.
Do not desert me, queen of the night;
Return to me the gift of sight.
Pity me, frosty lady of the dark,

And tell me I am not alone.

George Chadderdon © 1994