Cold shone the moon, with noise

The night went by.

Trees uttered things of woe:

Bent grass dared not grow:

Ah desperate man with haggard eyes

And hands that fence away the skies

On rock and briar stumbling,

Is it fear of the storm’s rumbling,

Of the hissing cold rain,

Or lightning’s tragic pain

Drives you so madly?

See, see the patient moon;

How she her course keeps

Through cloudy shallows and across black deeps,

Now gone, now shines soon:

Where’s cause for fear?

‘I shudder and shudder

At her bright light:

I fear, I fear,

That she her fixt course follows

So still and white

Poor storm-wisp, wander!

Wind shall not hurt thee,

Rain not appal thee,

Lightning not blast thee;

Thou art worn so frail

Only the moonlight pale

To an ash shall burn thee,

To an invisible Pain.