Moonstruck

I have quarrelled with the Moon. I loved her once,
As all boys love one face supremely fair.
I had heard her praised, and I too, happy dunce,
Let my tongue wag and made her my heart's prayer.
My prayer! For what, great heaven? The midnight air
Seemed trembling in her presence, and those nuns
The worshipping host knelt round her, star and star,
And sobbed ``magnificat'' in antiphons.
She was my saint, queen, goddess. Then, one night,
Another face I saw, which, not a god's,
Moved me to dreams more sweet than reverence,
And we were near our bliss, when from the clouds
Her angry eyes looked down and drove us thence
Moonstruck and blind and robbed of our delight.

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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt was an English poet and writer. more…

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"Moonstruck" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 21 Sep. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/38762/moonstruck>.

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