To the Moon
Hail, “great Diana,” “virgin Queen of night!”
“Pale, silent orb,” “mild Luna,” new or full,
Crescent or gibbous! if thought not too dull,
List to the prayer of a poor rhyming wight!
Behold thy servant in a piteous plight!
My soul is sad, my coat is growing old;
my heart is heavy, and my heels are cold;
Both in and out I am a sorry sight;
Ideas and ink are gone, - I cannot write, -
And when I could, they said I was loon
For offering incense at thy shrine, O Moon!
They call me mad, and that unmans me quite:
Regina, hear me! if I’m not a dunce,
Moonstrike my brain, and make me so at once!
Hail, “great Diana,” “virgin Queen of night!”
“Pale, silent orb,” “mild Luna,” new or full,
Crescent or gibbous! if thought not too dull,
List to the prayer of a poor rhyming wight!
Behold thy servant in a piteous plight!
My soul is sad, my coat is growing old;
my heart is heavy, and my heels are cold;
Both in and out I am a sorry sight;
Ideas and ink are gone, - I cannot write, -
And when I could, they said I was loon
For offering incense at thy shrine, O Moon!
They call me mad, and that unmans me quite:
Regina, hear me! if I’m not a dunce,
Moonstrike my brain, and make me so at once!