A baby looks up at the moon, And cries, Because he cannot grasp The big, silver balloon, Tangled in the twisted branches, Of tall trees. To dreaming lovers, Drifting down languorous, limpid lakes, The moon is a white-flamed rose Of romance, Whose soft, shimmering petals Flutter witchingly Over the waters. But the apathetic astronomer Gazes through a long, black telescope, And sees only a bleak, barren sphere, Wheeling mathematically Through charted space! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HERITAGE by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE SECOND DAYES LAMENTATION OF THE AFFECTIONATE SHEPHEARD by RICHARD BARNFIELD URANIA; THE WOMAN IN THE MOON: THE FOURTH CANTO, OR LAST QUARTER by WILLIAM BASSE THOMAS GRAY by ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON THE WHITE THOUGHT by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |