The Moon
By James Stephens
If the Moon had a hand
I wonder would she
Stretch it down unto me?
If she did, I would go
To her glacier land,
To her ice-covered strand.
I would run, I would fly,
Were the cold ever so,
And be warm in the snow.
O Moon of all Light,
Sailing far, sailing high
In the infinite sky.
Do not come down to me,
Lest I shriek in affright,
Lest I die in the night
Of your chill ecstasy.