At fifty, the speaker feels shut out from a world of moonlight and magical beings. He remembers the “dark leopards of the moon,” the “wild witches,” and the “holy centaurs of the hills” as if they were once real presences—noble, strange, and alive. Now they are gone or banished, and only the sun remains: first “harsh,” then “timid.” The moon, imagined as a heroic mother, has vanished. The speaker is left with a diminished, unmagical daylight and the ache of that loss. The contrast makes the sun feel like a letdown—too weak to replace what the moon gave. The mood is mournful, weary, and quietly bitter: dejection mixed with longing for a vanished intensity tied to youth, myth, and the life of the imagination.
Lines Written in Dejection — Summary
When have I last looked on The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies Of the dark leopards of the moon? All the wild witches those most noble ladies, For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone. The holy centaurs of the hills are banished; And I have nothing but harsh sun; Heroic mother moon has vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.