Now once again the glaring moon,
A mirror in the midnight sky,
A single flower in an empty field,
Evokes the expectation that
An ancient truth will be revealed.

Who knows from where such expectations come,
Some source deluded or inspired,
Ancestral intimations that the moon
Conveys the permanence we know as change,
that what we love must vanish soon.

Thus sorrow for each pulsing thing
That crawls or creeps, slithers or strides,
Is given in this passing night to know
From the dark depth of need, or maybe fear;
Sorrow abides because I think it so.

So this is what the moon proclaims
As it has always done, and always will
For those who watch it at the full,
Who hold it in their sight, and, like our blood,
Feel tidal power in its pull.