Pass the day enough times and see

The moon spill an inky shade,

Monumental on the boulevards and ivy

Nearly overcome with still intensity. 

 

There are only minutiae of light

By which to tell or toll the night –

From the vast obscurities of air

They fall into a waiting telescope

 

And must rediscover their course of old. 

Mostly, lenses sift, lenses show,

But the eye itself is resistant:

It will hardly accept the dim composure

 

Of the moon, dilated and bathing

In great accident. It has known,

So long, the precarious widths of spheres,

The sea’s translucent foams.