John McCullagh July 31, 2007
aisling2.jpg

Though nurtured like the sailing moon

In beauty’s murderous brood,

She walked awhile and blushed awhile

And on my pathway stood

Until I thought her body bore

A heart of flesh and blood.

 

But since I laid a hand thereon

And found a heart of stone

I have attempted many things

And not a thing is done

For every hand is lunatic

That travels on the moon.

 

She smiled and that transfigured me

And left me but a lout

Maundering here, and maundering there

Emptier of thought

Than the heavenly circuit of its stars

When the moon sails out.

 

Leave a comment.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.