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'L'aube vient à travers les Alpes comme le Ra d'Amun –
sa couronne là rampe d'abord, et les choses de la nuit se fanent.
Je suis la lune.'
Thou still, meand’ring moon that stirs the sky,
That haunts the clays of cold and distant lands,
Adrift on senseless seas that know no shore –
Shake off thy smoked-glass blanket and awake!
Thy slumber is thy safety, and thy snag;
The chain that chokes thee, yokes thee to the world,
Brings calming circles, certainty – and sloth.
What love thou bearst for fair and faithful Earth!
But how canst thou be sure the Sun is dull?
Does she not shine? What ecstasy holds fire?
Dost thou not shift moth-like to her charms?
How sweet might total loss of self yet be,
And how divine destruction in her flames?
But couldst thou drink Earth’s tears till they were dry,
And wouldst thou not lament the season brief
The fickle sun spends granting us her smile? –
Is life in answers, or in questions held?
O loose thy shackles, slip into the strange,
Celestial sister, slide from stifling charts!
Take foolish courage, fly, and light my path!
Then shall I sip of erotemes my fill?
O curse sweet sin – She fascinates me still!
Samuel Reed
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