Monday, December 20

with the breath from their pale faces

Dim vales -- and shadowy floods --
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane --
Again -- again -- again--
Every moment of the night --
Forever changing places --
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down -- still down -- and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its side circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be --
O'er the strange woods -- o'er the sea --
Over spirits on the wing --
Over every drowsy thing --
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light --
And then, how deep! -- O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like -- almost any thing --
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before --
Videlicet a tent --
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.

Enjoy the lunar eclipse tonight. Cross your fingers for a magically disappearing cloud cover.

(click for source)

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