Poem by Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961)




The Summer Moon

 

How is it, O moon, that melting,
Unstintedly, prodigally,
On the peaks' hard majesty,
Till they seem diaphanous
And fluctuant as a veil,
And pouring thy rapturous light
Through pine, and oak, and laurel,
Till the summer-sharpened green,
Softening and tremulous,
Is a lustrous miracle -
How is it that I find,
When I turn again to thee,
That thy lost and wasted light
Is regained in one magic breath?

 

 

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Written on 2022-09-05 at 00:00

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
The word 'magic' in the final line, is the adjective that comes to mind for me. The romantic age.....
Allen
2022-09-06