I have quarrelled with the Moon. I loved her once, <br />As all boys love one face supremely fair. <br />I had heard her praised, and I too, happy dunce, <br />Let my tongue wag and made her my heart's prayer. <br />My prayer! For what, great heaven? The midnight air <br />Seemed trembling in her presence, and those nuns <br />The worshipping host knelt round her, star and star, <br />And sobbed ``magnificat'' in antiphons. <br />She was my saint, queen, goddess. Then, one night, <br />Another face I saw, which, not a god's, <br />Moved me to dreams more sweet than reverence, <br />And we were near our bliss, when from the clouds <br />Her angry eyes looked down and drove us thence <br />Moonstruck and blind and robbed of our delight.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/moonstruck-8/
