If the moon’s our ideal of beauty,your pockmarked face could come close.The moon moves at a snail’s pace;for you, this would hardly be a race.The moon’s alone in the sky.If you’re lonely, I don’t know why.
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the sky,“How silently, and with how wan a face!”Where art thou? Thou so often seen on highRunning among the clouds a Wood-nymph’s race!Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath’s a sighWhich they would stifle, move at such a pace!The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had IThe power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,Should sally forth, to keep thee company,Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven;But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,Queen both for beauty and for majesty.