Half his life he spent wondering in shadow,
For no few than years would fail to pass,
Bitter more nor sweeter less comes to know,
And he ne not knew the terror that he was,

Until he became man, and so became him,
Ere swept glory wept ere really born,
Shaken from brow down to lidless whim
Who called on night in bittersweet scorn:

Oh, Moon. Don’t let the moon die so soon,
An hour for night in a single second,
Is but mine earnest fault in lasting boon,
Whose wrongs I am are but rights ere reckoned.

Life, Nocturnal, Poetry, Works
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