I make His Crescent fill or lack —
His Nature is at Full
Or Quarter — as I signify —
His Tides — do I control —
He holds superior in the Sky
Or gropes, at my Command
Behind inferior Clouds — or round
A Mist's slow Colonnade —
But since We hold a Mutual Disc —
...
She laid her docile Crescent down
And this confiding Stone
Still states to Dates that have forgot
The News that she is gone —
So constant to its stolid trust,
The Shaft that never knew —
It shames the Constancy that fled
Before its emblem flew —
Which is the best — the Moon or the Crescent?
Neither — said the Moon —
That is best which is not — Achieve it —
You efface the Sheen.
Not of detention is Fruition —
Shudder to attain.
Transport's decomposition follows —
He is Prism born.