In a strange, suspended moment between a summer noon and midnight, the speaker looks up at a sky full of pale stars. The moon dominates the scene, bright but emotionally cold, a queen with planets as her slaves, casting an icy smile on the world below. He watches it briefly, but the chill is too much — it feels almost deathly. A thin cloud drifts across like a shroud, and he physically turns away from the moon to face the Evening Star, Venus, shining alone in its own distant glory.
That shift in attention is a shift in feeling. He speaks directly to the star, telling it that its far-off light matters more to him than the moon’s cold, lowly glow. The star becomes a source of private joy and admiration, something proud and unpossessed. The mood is one of quiet, nighttime reverence: not lonely, but full of a hushed affection for something remote, steady, and glowing with a warmth the moon can’t offer.