A Match With the Moon
WEARY already, weary miles to—night
I walked for bed: and so, to get some ease,
I dogged the flying moon with similes.
And like a wisp she doubled on my sight
In ponds; and caught in tree—tops like a kite;
And in a globe of film all liquorish
Swam full—faced like a silly silver fish;—
Last like a bubble shot the welkin’s height
Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent
My wizened shadow craning round at me,
And jeered, “So, step the measure,—one two three!”
And if I faced on her, looked innocent.
But just at parting, halfway down a dell,
She kissed me for good—night. So you’ll not tell.
