An Old Woman Sings to the Moon

by Frederika James

The moonlight falls on hill and plain— The moonlight falls on me: The moon brings madness to the brain, But the mad are only those who see No yesterdays . . . nor days to be.

Plant your beans when moons are bright, And you have beans to sell; But painted posts are set at night, And all the fruiting things as well, When moons are dark and cast no spell.

The sun, which burns the world at noon, Holds like a savage beast His prey in an enchanted swoon, Till time itself has almost ceased, And waits, unshriven, for the priest.

Stars fall on silvery lagoons, And grey clouds float on rivers. The wind has died upon the dunes; And each cold moon-drenched garden shivers, And in the hills the scared coon quivers.

The moon, inexorable, draws From vast primeval depths, the sea: I am so old . . . yet would I pause, And pierce the radiant mystery, The chains of dreams and madness spun . . . I am too old to face the sun!