Bagatelle Poem by William Bell Scott

I play so false, my hand and sight
Are both at fault: you win of right;
Let's change the scene; so deep, so clear,
The sky is, yet few stars appear;
And one black field the whole earth lies;
I must confess that great moon's light
Took me with a keen surprise.

Thou Moon, because thou art so white,
We call thee patient, pure, and wise,
Alone too in this vast wide night,
Blue-black the colour of death's fold,—
We call thee goddess: unshared might
Is thine, supreme, without emprise,
Above all taint of wrong or right!
While we in manifold disguise,
Shut within this lamplit hold,
Play trivial games in time's despite,
To make life shorter and less cold.