Nox Oculis

William H. Davies (1871-1940)

The Moon

    Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,
    Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright ;
    Thy beauty makes me like the child
    That cries aloud to own thy light :
    The little child that lifts each arm
    To press thee to her bosom warm.

    Though there are birds that sing this night
    With thy white beams across their throats,
    Let my deep silence speak for me
    More than for them their sweetest notes :
    Who worships thee till music fails,
    Is greater than thy nightingales.

    William H. Davies

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