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The Moon
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| The Moon written by William Henry Davies |
| From "The Bird of Paradise", 1914 |
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.
| This work is in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is the author's life plus 70 years or less. |
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