Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO THE MOON, by JOHN KENYON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO THE MOON, by                    
First Line: That peace, how deep! This night of thousand stars
Last Line: Shall love thee yet the more for her sweet sake.
Subject(s): Moon


THAT peace, how deep! this night of thousand stars,
That hide themselves abash'd from the bold sun,
But hang, all fondly, on thy gentler brow, --
How calm! Yet not o'er calmer skies alone,
Mild Moon! is thy dominion: Thou dost sway
The very storm to obey thy peacefulness.
When winds are piping, and the charged clouds,
As if out-summon'd by that warlike music,
First in black squadrons rush; then sternly muster
In sullen mass, on either side the heaven,
Like armies face to face, with space between;
'T is then Thou glidest forth; like some pale nun,
Unhooded, whom a high and rare occasion
Wrests from her sanctuary, to interpose
In mortal quarrel, so thou glidest forth,
And lookest thy mild bidding; and the winds
Are silent; and those close-compacted clouds,
Disbanding, fleet in tender flakes away,
And leave the world to thy tranquility....
And ne'er did dawn behold thee lovelier yet,
Than when we saw thee, one remember'd day,
Thee and that brightest of all morning-stars,
Hang o'er the Adrian; not in thy full lustre,
But graceful with slim crescent; such as, erst,
Some Arab chief beheld in his own sky
Of purest, deepest azure; and so loved it,
So loved it, that he chose it for his symbol;
A peaceful symbol on a warlike banner!
And oft, I ween, in many a distant camp,
Mid the sharp neigh of steeds, and clash of cymbals,
And jingle of the nodding Moorish bells,
When he hath caught that image o'er the tents,
Hath he bethought him of the placid hours
When thou wast whitening his night-feeding flocks
On Yemen's happy hills; and then, perchance,
Hath sigh'd to think of war! We too beheld thee
With untired eye fix'd upward; scarce regarding
(So deep the charm which thou hadst wrapp'd around us)
Where reddening lines along the eastward sea
Spoke of the sun's uprising. Up he rose,
From o'er the regions of the near Illyria,
Glorious, how glorious! -- if less gladly hail'd
As warning thy departure. Yet, some time,
Ye shone together; and we then might feel
How they, the ancient masters of that land,
The dwellers on the banks of Rubicon,
Who saw what we were seeing, uninstruct'
Of wiser faith, had, in no feign'd devotion,
Bow'd down to thee, their Dian, and to him
Bright-hair'd Apollo! We, too, bow'd our hearts
But in a purer worship, to the One,
Who made, alone, the hills and seas and skies,
And thee, fair moon, the hallower of them all!
-- Well did that sun fulfil his rising promise,
Showering redundant light, the livelong day,
O'er plain, and inland peak, and bluest sea;
And brightening the far mole, which old Ancona
Hath rear'd upon the waves. Meanwhile, thy form
(Faint and more faint, and, if might be, more fair;
And still, as near to lose thee, loved the more)
Thinn'd to unseen. But as some morning dream,
Too sweet to part with, and which yet must fade
At touch of light, will oft unconsciously
Mix with the day, serener thoughts inweaving
Than sunbeams bring; or, as some melody,
Closed on the ear, nor e'en by it remember'd,
Will still its silent agency prolong
Upon the spirit, with a hoarded sweetness
Tempering the after-mood; e'en so did'st thou
Waft the bland influence of thy dawning presence
Over the onward hours. Yet, thou sphered vestal!
If mine it were to choose me when to bend
Before thy high-hung lamp; and venerate
Thy mysteries; and feel, not hear, the voice
Of thy mute admonition; let it be
At holy vesper-tide, when nature all
Whispers of peace; if solemn less than night's,
More soothing still. Such season of the soul
Obeys thee best. For as the unwrinkled pool,
Still'd o'er by stirless eve, will dimple under
The tiniest brushing of an insect's wing;
So, at that hour, do human hearts respond
To every touch of finer thought.....Such eve
Such blessed eve was ours, when last we stood
Beside the storied shore of Gaeta,
Breathing its citron'd air. Silence more strict
Was never. The small wave, or ripple rather,
Scarce lisping up the sand, crept to the ear,
Sole sound; nor did we break the calm with movement
Or sacrilege of word; but stay'd in peace,
Of thee expectant. And what need had been
Of voiced language, when the silent eye,
And silent pressure of each link'd arm,
Spoke more than utterance? Nay, whose tongue might tell
What hues were garlanding the western sky
To welcome thy approaching! Purple hues
With orange wove, and many a floating lake
Crimson or rose, with that last tender green
Which best relieves thy beauty. Who may paint
How glow'd those hills, with depth of ruddy light
Translucified, and half ethereal made,
For thy white feet to tread on? and, ere long, --
E'er yet those hues had left or sky or hill,
One peak with pearling top confess'd thy coming.
There didst thou pause awhile, as inly musing
O'er realm so fair! And, first, thy rays fell partial
On many a scatter'd object, here and there;
Edging or tipping, with fantastic gleam,
The sword-like aloe, or the tent-roof'd pine,
Or adding a yet paler pensiveness
To the pale olive-tree; or, yet more near us,
Were flickering back from wall reticulate'
Of ruin old. But when that orb of thine
Had clomb to the mid-concave, then broad light
Was flung around o'er all those girding cliffs
And groves, and villages, and fortress towers,
And the far circle of that lake-like sea,
Till the whole grew to one expanded sense
Of peacefulness, one atmosphere of love,
Where the soul breathed as native, and mere body
Sublimed to spirit...... She, too, stood beside us,
Our human type of thee; the pure, the peaceful,
The gentle, -- potent in her gentleness!
And, as she raised her eyes to thy meek glory,
In the fond aspiration of a heart,
Which prized all beauty and all sanctity;
We saw, and loved to see, thy sainting ray
Fall, as in fondness, on her upturn'd brow,
Serene, -- like it. Alas! in how brief space
Coldly to glitter on her marble tomb!
She lies in her own land; far from the scene
Of that fair eve; but thou, its fairer part,
Thou moon! art here; and now we gaze on thee
To think on her; if still in sorrow, yet
Not without hope; and, for the time to come,
Though dear to us thy light hath ever been,
Shall love thee yet the more for her sweet sake.





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