Sonnet to the Moon
Now every leaf, though colorless, burns bright
With disembodied and celestial light,
And drops without a movement or a sound
A pillar of darkness to the shifting ground.
The lucent, thin, and alcoholic flame
Runs in the stubble with a nervous aim,
But, when the eye pursues, will point with fire
Each single stubble-tip and strain no higher.
O triple goddess! Contemplate my plight!
Opacity, my fate! Change, my delight!
The yellow tom-cat, sunk in shifting fur,
Changes and dreams, a phosphorescent blur.
Sullen I wait, but still the vision shun.
Bodiless thoughts and thoughtless bodies run.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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