Saturday Poetry Corner: August Moonrise

 

 

 

 

 The sun was gone, and the moon was coming

Over the blue Connecticut hills;

The west was rosy, the east was flushed,

And over my head the swallows rushed

This way and that, with changeful wills. 

I heard them twitter and watched them dart

Now together and now apart

Like dark petals blown from a tree;

The maples stamped against the west 

Were black and stately and full of rest,

And the hazy orange moon grew up

And slowly changed to yellow gold

While the hills were darkened,  fold on fold

To a deeper blue than a flower could hold. 

Down the hill I went, and then

I forgot the ways of men,

For night-scents, heady, and damp and cool

Wakened ecstasy in me

On the brink of a shining pool. 

 

Image courtesy/Pinterest

 

 

O Beauty, out of many a cup

You have made me drunk and wild

Ever since I was a child,

But when have I been sure as now

That no bitterness can bend

And no sorrow wholly bow

One who loves you to the end? 

And though I must give my breath

And my laughter all to death,

And my eyes through which joy came, 

And my heart, a wavering flame;

If all must leave me and go back

Along a blind and fearful track

So that you can make anew,

Fusing with intenser fire,

Something nearer your desire;

If my soul must go alone

Through a cold infinity,

Or even if it vanish, too,

Beauty, I have worshiped you. 

Let this single hour atone

For the theft of all of me. 

 

"August Moonrise"
(1916
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
American lyric poetess