No longer throne of a goddess to whom we pray, The emphatic moon ascends— Some I love who are dead Pierced their ears for gold hoop earrings And burned in the garden of Gethsemane, And spread its radiance on the exile’s path Already a mooted goal and tomorrow perhaps
no longer the bubble house of childhood’s
tumbling Mother Goose man,
the brilliant challenger of rocket experts,
the white hope of communications men.
were watchers of the moon and knew its lore;
planted seeds, trimmed their hair,
as it waxed or waned.
It shines tonight upon their graves.
its light made holy by the dazzling tears
with which it mingled.
of Him who was The Glorious One,
its light made holy by His holiness.
an arms base, a livid sector,
the full moon dominates the dark.
— Robert Hayden, The Full Moon
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