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...ODE TO THE BROWN PAPER BAG by JAMES GALVIN THE YOUNG WARRIOR by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO NANNETTE FALK-AUERBACH by SIDNEY LANIER CORPORATE ENTITY by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH ATELIER CEZANNE by CLARENCE MAJOR |