Moonstruck

Cold shone the moon, with noise     The night went by.     Trees uttered things of woe:     Bent grass dared not grow:     Ah, desperate man with haggard eyes     And hands that fence away the skies,     On rock and briar stumbling,     Is it fear of the storm's rumbling,     Of the hissing cold rain,     Or lightning's tragic pain     Drives you so madly?     See, see the patient moon;     How she her course keeps     Through cloudy shallows and across black deeps,     Now gone, now shines soon.     Where's cause for fear?     'I shudder and shudder     At her bright light:     I fear, I fear,     That she her fixt course follows     So still and white     Through deeps and shallows     With never a tremor:     Naught shall disturb her.     I fear, I fear     What they may be     That secretly bind her:     What hand holds the reins     Of those sightless forces     That govern her courses.     Is it Setebos     Who deals in her command?     Or that unseen Night-Comer     With tender curst hand?      I shudder, and shudder.'     Poor storm-wisp, wander!     Wind shall not hurt thee,     Rain not appal thee,     Lightning not blast thee;     Thou art worn so frail,     Only the moonlight pale     To an ash shall burn thee,     To an invisible Pain.