No longer throne to a Goddess to whom we pray
no longer the bubble house of childhood's
tumbling Mother Goose man.
The emphatic moon ascends .....
the brilliant challenger of rocket experts,
the white hope of connections men.
Some I love who are dead
were watchers of the moon and knew its lore;
planted seeds, trimmed their hair.
Pierced their ears with gold-hoop earrings
as it waxed and waned.
It shines tonight upon their graves
And burned in the garden of Gethsemane,
its light made holy by the dazzle of tears
with which it mingled,
And spread its radiance upon the exile's path
of Him who was The Glorious One,
its light made holy by His holiness.
Already a muted goal and tomorrow, perhaps
an arms base, a livid sector,
the full moon dominates the dark.
ROBERT HAYDEN (US 1913 - 1980)