HE feigned a fine indifference <br />To be so prodigal of light, <br />Knowing his piteous twisted things <br />Would lose the crooked marks of spite <br />When only moonbeams fit the dusk <br />And made his wicked world seem right. <br /> <br /> <br />But we forget so soon the shame, <br />Conceiving sweetness if we can <br />Heaven the citadel itself <br />Illumined on the lunar plan; <br />And I the chief of sinners, I <br />The middlemost Victorian! <br /> <br /> <br />Now I shall ride the misty lake <br />With my own love, and speak so low <br />That not a fishy thing shall hear <br />The secrets passing to and fro <br />Amid the moonlight poetries. <br />O moonshine, how unman us so?<br /><br />John Crowe Ransom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/moonlight-72/
