Poems (Katharine Elizabeth Howard)/Moon-faring
MOON-FARING
The shallop of the moon lay low,A great star grasping at her horn,Her grossesse merged in haloAnd elfin flutes on the wind borne,—O heart o' me! Such fluting!Ropes of silver I saw swungFrom star to star and fairies swingingAnd swaying to the airs they sungAnd lilting to their singing—O heart o' me! Such singing!There was a pricking in the air,Whip—snap—of fairy repartee—And floating near—O clear! O rare!The elfin horns blared merrilie—O heart o' me! Such blaring!The shallop of the moon low lornAmong the clouds was borne,The great star graspt her horn,A falling globe down flared—And far the trumpets blared!O heart 0' me! Such faring!
Hist! Are they elfin thingsAstride the moon-rays?Certes, how they do liltAnd leer at me,—inconsequential fays—Silver threads they've spunFine, fine as silkAnd shining as the sun.Ah! People of that ilk,Such eerie things they do;Moon-folk they areOr from some neighboring starHave taken flight—Hist!Ah! What's this, and this,Soft as a flower's kiss?I'm spun about! Is'tThey have me caught?Certes! Strange folk they are,Quick as a thought.Hist! They are elfin things.
When stars in silver sandalsTread the radiant wayAnd throbbing nightMysterious nears the day,When to retreat the crescent moonHies bashful to prepareBehind the clouds her disarrayFor benediction of the sun,'Tis then beware!Then 'tis the influence of the nightHolds most its sway,'Tis then the nightGives up her throbbing self to day—When stars in silver sandalsTread the radiant way.
The moon has tipped her silver hornOf stars into the night—A-down they drift in wayward flightOr range in glorious height,A jewelled parterre bright.The moon has tipped her silver hornOf stars into the night—Of wafted sparks of incense borneAloft, when to the darkening lightThe moon has tipped her silver hornOf stars into the night.
When pulsing through the air I feelThe perfumes of the night,A spirit grows within my heart,A wild and wicked elfin spriteOwns me till the first streak of light,—When pulsing through the air I feelThe perfumes of the night.Away! Away! In joyous flight,Thoughtless and care-free quite,A heedless happy pagan sprite,—When pulsing through the air I feelThe perfumes of the night.
Refulgent in the sapphire night,Puissant moon of Spring,Drawing the incense of the KarthIn flower offering.Refulgent in the sapphire night,About the fairy hour you seemSo near and yet so rapt,—So real, yet like a dream—Wondrous full moon—Refulgent in the sapphire night,And ever climbing, climbing higherAttended by your waiting star,O moon, to zenith height.Wending from far to far,Full moon of mystery,—Puissant moon of Spring,Refulgent in the sapphire night.
Reach not to me, thou young May moon,Thy long white arms———O thou seducer! Thou dear seducer!Reach not thy wavering arms—Sure—'twas thine April sister hadMe foolish—making verse to her.O thou seducer! Thou dear seducer!Thou hast me fickle, mad—No! No! Look away—thou'rt lookingIn my window, moon-maid!Take thy fingers off the jonquils—Thy silver fingers—Ah! Dieu! Those streaks of silver!Thou'rt putting beauty touches warily—Seducer—thou dear seducer—Ah! Thou'rt witching me———Reach not—