I watched the moon around the house,
until upon a pane she stopped,
a traveler’s privilege, for rest,
and thereupon I gazed as at a stranger…but never stranger justified the curiosity like mine
for neither foot nor hand, nor formula had she…but like a stemless flower upheld in rolling air
by finer gravitations than bind philosopher…
no hunger had she, nor an inn,
nor avocation, nor concern
for little mysteries as harass us,
like life and death…the privilege to scrutinize was scarce upon my eyes
when, with a silver practice,
she vaulted out of gaze,
and next I met her on a cloud…
myself too far below
to follow her superior road
or its advantage blue…I watched the moon around the house,
until upon a pane she stopped,
a traveler’s privilege, for rest,
and thereupon I gazed as at a stranger…
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