Low and Singing Beneath a Pale Half-Moon

The moon looks in through a gap in the blinds,
Hanging low beneath the clouds.
A grieving bride in her wedding shrouds,
A white chariot to the black canopy,
She hangs and floats there, singing to me.

A half-moon is the most magical of moons,
More magical than the crescents they think
Rule their fates, or the full moon they drink
To as the lady and the ruler of madness.
The half-moon is solemn; she rules not gladness,

But a higher and more solemn, stately emotion,
That which goes walking at a king's coronation,
And speaks of relentless duty, and obligation,
And whispers in the ear until I look back at her,
And feast my eyes on the cream-yellow shimmer,

And honor her with my glance and my gaze,
Because I know that it is a foolish old dream
That she has eyes to see me seeing her gleam,
That human mind drives me to make this mad tune,
Low and singing beneath a pale half-moon.