Moonlight

The Sadness of the MOON

by Charles Baudelaire

The Moon more indolently dreams to-night 

Than a fair woman on her couch at rest, 

Caressing, with a hand distraught and light, 

Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast. 

Upon her silken avalanche of down, 

Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh; 

And watches the white visions past her flown, 

Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky. 

And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep, 

Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow, 

Some pious poet, enemy of sleep, 

Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow 

Whence gleams of iris and of opal start, 

And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart.

   The Freedom of the Moon

by Robert Frost

I've tried the new moon tilted in the air

Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster

As you might try a jewel in your hair.

I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster,

Alone, or in one ornament combining

With one first-water start almost shining.

I put it shining anywhere I please.

By walking slowly on some evening later,

I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,

And brought it over glossy water, greater,

And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,

The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.