The moon, I know, reveals so little, and yet enough for me to find my way not stumbling to the deserted road's verge where I can look back and see, dimly, the rooftop and jagged silhouettes of trees, and the rising moon itself, and my own facade as yet dark but for the pale, curtained windows. The night will end before the moon can reach that dark wall, and it will be exposed by common daylight as dull and without mystery. Even not knowing what lay within that house, I think I'd turn my gaze to the moonlit west, or to the sky where small clouds now throng, set with rare stars. Everything in the world lies outside that place to which I return reluctantly, thinking only how desire plays through the vast world like moonbeams through woodland paths.
by Richard Wilbur
The selfsame toothless voice for death or bridal:
It has been long since men would give the time
To tell each someone's-change with a special chime,
And a toll for every year the dead walked through.
And mostly now, above this ugent idle
Town, the bells mark time, as they can do.
This bavardage of early and of late
Is what is wanted, and yet the bells beseech
By some excess that's in their stricken speech
Less meanly to be heard. Were this not so,
Why should Great Paul shake every window plate
To warn me that my pocket watch is slow?
Whether or not attended, bells will chant
With a clear dumb sound, and wide of any word
Expound our hours, clear as the waves are heard
Crashing at Mount Desert, from far at sea,
And dumbly joining, as the night's descent
Makes deltas into dark of every tree.
Great Paul, great pail of sound, still dip and draw
Dark speech from the deep and quiet steeple well,
Bring dark for doctrine, do but dim and quell
All voice in yours, while earth will give you breath.
Still gather to a language without flaw
Our loves, and all the hours of our death.