Votive
O MOON , swung there immeasurably far,
Yet only in the pear-tree top, how then
Shall we body in thought the beauty that you are—
Your wizardry upon the souls of men?
Hush! Let us say it is the tender light
That falls in silver circumstance and red
Dimly upon the regions of the night,
And saying this how little then is said.
Why should this mute enchantment thus possess
Our hearts in adoration—how should come
This worship of a ghost of quietness,
Of spectral tides that move not and are dumb?
Why do we worship? We are but strays of will,
While the sun takes us. Folded now and far
From the day's light, we are minds possessed and still,
Vision and peace. We worship what we are.
Yet only in the pear-tree top, how then
Shall we body in thought the beauty that you are—
Your wizardry upon the souls of men?
Hush! Let us say it is the tender light
That falls in silver circumstance and red
Dimly upon the regions of the night,
And saying this how little then is said.
Why should this mute enchantment thus possess
Our hearts in adoration—how should come
This worship of a ghost of quietness,
Of spectral tides that move not and are dumb?
Why do we worship? We are but strays of will,
While the sun takes us. Folded now and far
From the day's light, we are minds possessed and still,
Vision and peace. We worship what we are.
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