What's O'Clock/Fool o' the Moon
FOOL O' THE MOON
The silver-slippered moon treads the blue tiles of the sky, And I See her dressed in golden roses, With a single breast uncovered, The carnation tip of it Urgent for a lover's lip. So she dances to a stately Beat, with poses most sedately Taken, yet there lies Something wanton in her gestures, And there is surprise of coquetry In the falling of her vestures. Why?
Out of old mythology, With a pulse of gourds and sheep-skins, Banging bronze and metal thunders, There is she, Wonderfullest of earth's wonders. As for me, Head thrown back and arms spread wide Like a zany crucified, I stand watching, waiting, gazing, All of me spent in amazing, Longing for her wheat-white thighs, Thirsting for her emerald fire, My desire Pounding dully from my eyes. And my hands Clutch and cuddle the vast air Seeking her where she's most fair.
There, On the cool blue tiles of heaven, She is dancing coolly, coldly, Footsteps trace a braid of seven, And her gauzy garments fleet Round her like a glittering sleet. Suddenly she flings them boldly In a streaming bannerall Out behind, And I see all. God! I'm blind!
And a goodly company Of men are we, Lovers she has chosen, Laughing-stocks and finger-posts To the wise, a troupe of ghosts Swelled by every century. Mad, and blind, and burnt, and frozen, Standing on a hilly slope At bright midnight, And our hope Is in vain, or is it not? Legend knows the very spot Where the moon once made her bed. But the pathway as it led Over rock-brows to that valley Is an alley choked and dead. One by one our fates deceive us, One of hundreds will be shown Ferny uplands whose pent bosses Of tall granite hide the mosses Where our Lady's lying prone, All her stars withdrawn, alone. So she chooses to receive us,Out of hundreds, only one.
Such a vale of moss and heather Spreads about us, hither—thither. Hush! Shall I tell what befell Once behind that bush. When the rattling pods at noon Made a music in September. Shall I say what I remember—While the long, sea-grasses croon, And the sea-spray on the sand Chips the silence from the land? Hush, then, let me say it soon. I have lain with Mistress Moon.