To the Crescent Moon

Who would dare eclipse thee,
  Thou queen of queens, the moon?
What blade would strike your perfect form
  To see your glory hewn?

What great fell hand has stretched abroad
  What fingerprint would mar
The light which you reflect from he
  Who chaseth off the stars,

But howbeit the king of day
  Which covers other lights
Itself becometh shrouded
  At the coming of the night?

If every light and beauty were
  All present to our eyes
Could our mortal minds behold
  The brightness of the skies?

But nature biddeth every beauty veil,
And every glory here conceal its scale.

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Written October 2022