Silver and Roses, Henna and Myrrh

 

 

 

To The Daughter of the Moon

 

Hast thou beheld the royal-golden Sun

Astride his vast, cerulean demesne,

When afternoon succeeding morn outrun

Horizons four in brilliance does contain?

Superber glory nowhere might be found

Than glory of the zenith of that King

To whom the hymns of Nature all redound

And whom the anthems of Creation sing.

Yet ne’ertheless the Sun bends low his pride

And maiden-red his blush o’erflows the West,

When at the threshold of the evening-tide,

He hails the Moon, the loveliest and best.

Were I the sun, then thou my Moon would’st be,

And I should blush before thine empery.

 

                               Monday, January 27, 1969

 

Image: http://www.thomaslaupstad.com/blog/pictures/winter_moon_800.jpg