Dikt om temaet: moon

Dikt om temaet «moon» på Poets.by.

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D. H. Lawrence

Green

The dawn was apple-green, The sky was green wine held up in the sun, The moon was a golden petal between. She opened her eyes, and green They shone, clear like flowers undone For the first time, now for the first time seen.

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Katherine Mansfield

The Sea Child

Into the world you sent her, mother, Fashioned her body of coral and foam, Combed a wave in her hair’s warm smother, And drove her away from home. In the dark of the night she crept to the town And under a doorway she laid her down, The little blue child in the foam-fringed gown. And never a sister and never a brother To hear her call, to answer her cry. Her face shone out from her hair’s warm smother Like a moonkin up in the sky. She sold her corals; she sold her foam; Her rainbow heart like a singing shell Broke in her body: she crept back home. Peace, go back to the world, my daughter, Daughter, go back to the darkling land;

John Gould Fletcher

Another Oak

Poison ivy crawls at its root, I dare not approach it, It has an air of hate. One would say a man had been hanged to its branches, It holds them in such a way. The moon gets tangled in it, A distant steeple seems to bark From its belfry to the sky. Something that no one ever loved, Is buried here: Some grey shape of deadly hate, Crawls on the back fence just beyond. Now I remember--once I went Out by night too near this oak, And a red cat suddenly leapt From the dark and clawed my face.

John Freeman

The Wanderer

Over the pool of sleep The night mists creep, Then faint thin light and then clear day, Noontide, and lingering afternoon; Then that Wanderer, the Moon Wandering her old wild way. How many spirits follow Her in that dark hollow! Like a lost lamb she roams on high Through the cold and soundless sky, And stares down into her deep Reflection in the pool of sleep. How many follow Her in that lone hollow! She sees them not nor would she hear Though both shape and sound were clear,

John Freeman

The Silvery One

Clear from the deep sky pours the moon Her silver on the heavy dark; The small stars blink. Against the moon the maple bough Flutters distinct her leafy spears; All sound falls weak.... Weak the train's whistle, the dog's bark, Slow steps; and rustling into her nest At last, the thrush. All's still; only earth turns and breathes. Then that amazing trembling note Cleaves the deep wave Of silence. Shivers even that silvery one; Sigh all the trees, even the cedar dark ----O joy, and I.

Claude McKay

Adolescence

There was a time when in late afternoon The four-o’clocks would fold up at day’s close Pink-white in prayer, and ’neath the floating moon I lay with them in calm and sweet repose. And in the open spaces I could sleep, Half-naked to the shining worlds above; Peace came with sleep and sleep was long and deep, Gained without effort, sweet like early love. But now no balm--nor drug nor weed nor wine-- Can bring true rest to cool my body’s fever, Nor sweeten in my mouth the acid brine, That salts my choicest drink and will forever.

Arna Bontemps

Length of Moon

Then the golden hour Will tick its last And the flame will go down in the flower. A briefer length of moon Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune. Then we may think of this, yet There will be something forgotten And something we should forget. It will be like all things we know: The stone will fail; a rose is sure to go. It will be quiet then and we may stay As long at the picket gate But there will be less to say.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

To Jane: 'The Keen Stars Were Twinkling'

The keen stars were twinkling, And the fair moon was rising among them, Dear Jane! The guitar was tinkling, But the notes were not sweet till you sung them Again. As the moon's soft splendour O'er the faint cold starlight of Heaven Is thrown, So your voice most tender To the strings without soul had then given Its own. The stars will awaken, Though the moon sleep a full hour later, To-night; No leaf will be shaken

Percy Bysshe Shelley

The World's Wanderers

Tell me, thou Star, whose wings of light Speed thee in thy fiery flight, In what cavern of the night Will thy pinions close now? Tell me, Moon, thou pale and gray Pilgrim of Heaven's homeless way, In what depth of night or day Seekest thou repose now? Weary Wind, who wanderest Like the world's rejected guest, Hast thou still some secret nest On the tree or billow?

Emily Dickinson