Attention Selenophiles! This column is for you and all others who might enjoy some poems about our favorite celestial friend, the Moon.
The moon has been an important subject in English poetry dating back to Chaucer in the 14th century, who was an astronomer as well as a poet. There is a crater on the far side of the moon named for Chaucer.
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No surprise that Shakespeare wrote often about the moon, sometimes giving it human characteristics.
But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the Sun.
Arise, fair Sun, and kill the envious Moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou, her Maid, art far more fair than she.
I learned about moon poetry at an early age when I grew up with Robert Louis Stevenson’s “A Child’s Garden of Verses” at my bedside.
The moon has a face like the clock in the hall;
She shines on thieves on the garden wall,
On streets and fields and harbour quays,
And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.
The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse,
The howling dog by the door of the house,
The bat that lies in bed at noon,
All love to be out by the light of the moon.
But all of the things that belong to the day
Cuddle to sleep to be out of her way;
And flowers and children close their eyes
Till up in the morning the sun shall arise.
Of the three great romantic poets that Dorothy Parker referred to as “a trio of lyrical treats,” all three made moon references in their works. Here is Lord Byron.
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
John Keats wrote his epic poem “Endymion” which features Selene, the goddess of the moon, making nightly crossings of the sky while also dropping into the bedroom of a sleeping shepherd she loves. The poem opens with the famous line, “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote this piece with its question for the moon.
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, —
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
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Our two most popular New England poets used the moon in major works. Here are excerpts from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “In the Harbour: Moonlight.”
As a pale phantom with a lamp
Ascends some ruin’s haunted stair,
So glides the moon along the damp
Mysterious chambers of the air.
Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed,
As if this phantom, full of pain,
Were by the crumbling walls concealed,
And at the windows seen again.
Until at last, serene and proud
In all the splendor of her light,
She walks the terraces of cloud,
Supreme as Empress of the Night.
And from the pen of Emily Dickinson:
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago —
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below —
Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde —
Her Cheek — a Beryl hewn —
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known —
Her Lips of Amber never part —
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will —
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star —
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door —
Her Bonnet is the Firmament —
The Universe — Her Shoe —
The Stars — the Trinkets at Her Belt —
Her Dimities — of Blue —
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In addition to our keyword, there are two close cousins whose appearance in poetry should be considered: “Moonlight” and “Moonbeam.” (Forget Moonshine)
Here is a moonbeam poem called “Midnight” by Louise Glück.
The stars are soft as flowers, and as near;
The hills are webs of shadow, slowly spun;
No separate leaf or single blade is here-
All blend to one.
No moonbeam cuts the air; a sapphire light
Rolls lazily. and slips again to rest.
There is no edged thing in all this night,
Save in my breast.
In the case of “Moonlight” there is no competition in the English language to this beautiful passage from Shakespeare’s “The Merchant of Venice.” It has been set to music by numerous composers, most notably by Ralph Vaughan Williams in his “Serenade to Music.”
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Look, how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There’s not the smallest orb that thou behold’st
But in his motion like an angel sings
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn:
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear,
And draw her home with music.
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And lest we forget, while we’re speaking of music, may we refer you to a piece called the “Moonlight Sonata.”
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From time to time poets wrestled with what the actual make-up of the moon might be. Green cheese was a frequent contender. But no one has more delightfully addressed this question than e.e. cummings who suggested this:
who knows if the moon’s
a balloon, coming out of a keen city
in the sky—filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should
get into it, if they
should take me and take you into their balloon.
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people
than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited, where
always
it’s
Spring) and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves
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The idea of a Man in the Moon has been around for centuries, and the dark and light areas on the moon’s surface have suggested a human face as well. The ever-inventive J.R.R. Tolkien provides the real story.
There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
one night to drink his fill.
The ostler has a tipsy cat
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he saws his bow
Now squeaking high, now purring low,
now sawing in the middle.
The landlord keeps a little dog
that is mighty fond of jokes;
When there’s good cheer among the guests,
He cocks an ear at all the jests
and laughs until he chokes.
They also keep a hornéd cow
as proud as any queen;
But music turns her head like ale,
And makes her wave her tufted tail
and dance upon the green.
And O! the rows of silver dishes
and the store of silver spoons!
For Sunday there’s a special pair,
And these they polish up with care
on Saturday afternoons.
The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,
and the cat began to wail;
A dish and a spoon on the table danced,
The cow in the garden madly pranced
and the little dog chased his tail.
The Man in the Moon took another mug,
and then rolled beneath his chair;
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,
Till in the sky the stars were pale,
and dawn was in the air.
Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat:
The white horses of the Moon,
They neigh and champ their silver bits;
But their master’s been and drowned his wits,
and the Sun’ll be rising soon!’
So the cat on the fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,
a jig that would wake the dead:
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:
‘It’s after three!’ he said.
They rolled the Man slowly up the hill
and bundled him into the Moon,
While his horses galloped up in rear,
And the cow came capering like a deer,
and a dish ran up with the spoon.
Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;
the dog began to roar,
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;
The guests all bounded from their beds
and danced upon the floor.
With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke!
the cow jumped over the Moon,
And the little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the Saturday dish went off at a run
with the silver Sunday spoon.
The round Moon rolled behind the hill,
as the Sun raised up her head.
She hardly believed her fiery eyes;
For though it was day, to her surprise
they all went back to bed!
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Two final notes. My thanks go to Cole Porter for providing the title for this column.
It was just one of those things,
Just one of those crazy flings,
One of those bells that now and then rings,
Just one of those things.
It was just one of those nights,
Just one of those fabulous flights,
A trip to the moon on gossamer wings,
Just one of those things.
And here’s a nod to Anonymous who hasn’t been heard from lately. It’s his Advice to a Poet.
As a noun the Moon
Is at your beck and call.
But as a verb, to moon,
Well, it isn’t nice at all.
VIDEO. Our video runs about 13 minutes, but it’s quite special. It’s the short but inventive feature made in 1902 by the French pioneer filmmaker Georges Méliès. The film itself is silent, but in early presentation there was sometimes a narrator and often a small orchestra. An important part of film history.
CLICK ON THIS LINK FOR VIDEO: A TRIP TO THE MOON
