Oh, what far-westering moon
into the early morning winter sky
does crowd that sapphire plane
in abundant silver light?
What dreams of fragrant flowers
or wishes of love, are cast upon
sleepers bathed in beams of magic light?
What memories of a primitive place,
or tall-masted ships, come a-trickle down
like precious jewels on the slumberer?
And have I never danced in the arms of a lover,
that the full-lipped moon should touch me so?
Or is there enough primitive beast inside me,
brought to life by the eternal silvery glow?
I long for the arrival of the near-distant spring,
when this same full moon calls me to fly,
or to run through the forest with the pack,
or to lie simply in the dew-jeweled grass and remember
the far-westering moon, awash in a winter sky,
accompanying me of a sleepless night.
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