My Cresent moon thinly veiled in clouds you quietly whisper in my ear and bend me towards your will

Oh Crescent Moon you make me wonder what is behind that coy smile...

The south-wind strengthens to a gale, / Across the moon the clouds fly fast, / The house is smitten as with a flail, / The chimney shudders to the blast.

The white saucer like some full moon descends / At last from the clouds of the table above.

Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,/ In the dawn clouds flying,/ How good to go, light into light, and still/ Giving light, dying.

The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of us; but, so far we are pursued by nothing else.