I said: “The moon is obviously a boat
That rocks in the sunken pool as the waters swell.
Let us tiptoe hand in hand to the moon, and float
Inside its rim, as in a coracle.
“Look how she sways,” I said, “like a ballet-dancer
That pirouettes to the edge of the stage and back.
We are watching the moon’s performance.”
She did not answer
Her eyes fixed me and held me in their track.
“I am held,” I said, “by the sanity of eyes
From becoming God or a chattering baboon;
From burning these peacock yews, which otherwise
Would shade the cast-iron panthers from the moon
“From the sight of the waning moon which in July
Reflects its light in the metal eyes of the panthers.
They follow it down the alleys of the sky
Till they find a water poisoned by ailanthus,
“A pool like this one, black against the moon,”
I said.
But her steel eyes held me in their track.
I might have gone quite mad, like the metal panthers,
And followed the moon; but her cold eyes held me back.
Her eyes were fixed and mad, like mine and the panthers’.
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