THE PASSING MOON

In my loggia bright I watch to-night

The full moon sailing by;

From a crystal creek in a glaciered peak

It slipped to the open sky,

And now rides free in a clear, blue sea,

With not an island nigh.

Through pearly haze its light displays

Each buttressed mountain side,

And softly shines through stately pines

Where feudal castles hide,

And every height grows dazzling white

In the foam of a silver tide.

From the eastern side of the valley wide

To its snow-capped western rim

It will hold its way, till the dawning day

Shall have made its disk grow dim;

Then, leaving the blue, will drop from view

Behind the mountain's brim.

Whence did it climb on its path sublime,

Ere it left that icy height?

And where will it go, when yonder snow

Is reached in the morning light?

Will its face elsewhere be just as fair,

When here it is lost to sight?

Why should I ask?‘ Tis a fruitless task;

Enough that its splendor falls

On me to-night in my loggia bright,

Till the scene my soul enthralls;

‘ Tis a long time yet, ere the moon will set

Behind those glittering walls.

And even when it sinks again

Below that stainless crest,

It will seem at last to have safely passed

To a haven of peace and rest,

Like a happy soul that hath reached its goal

In the kingdom of the blest.

I also know not where I go,

Nor whence I came, or why,

Nor can I guess what happiness

Or strange, new world may lie

Beyond the vale through which I sail,

Beneath another sky;

But as the moon, which all too soon

Sinks down the west for me,

To other eyes appears to rise

And glide on fair and free,

So the frail boat in which I float,

Though tempest-worn it be,

May cross life's brink, and seem to sink,

Yet sail another sea.