Explore "The Moon" by Alice Meynell on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace,
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, / Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? / Are beauties there as proud as here they be? / Do they above love to be loved, and yet / Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? / Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?