LIKE a chimney afire The Moon leapt sudden from under the eaves Of the fir-brow'd hill; Smoky at first, then, rising higher, Rosier, then yellow as leaves In the months' decay and chill; And, at last, clear, clear shining Above clay-hooded mastodons reclining All down the sloping East. And now was she the serene Mother of gods, Or a shield against some god hot from the feast, Or an altar of psalms and maiden supplications, Dread shrine of kneeling distant nations, Or a lamp to him that, staring, nods Nightly from yon Tower Hour after weary limping hour; And now, now none of these, For an Owl flurrying softly hither and thither Crosses the Moon's mild face and returns and away Again in a wailing wild unease, Plucking at the lovely rondure of silver'd decay, This one of a million glittering motes Speckling an infinite bay, This mother of visions and divinities, Plucking, plucking from this ancient corruption Some festering sweet morsel to appease The clamour of owlet throats. |