Moonsong at Morning

O moon of illusion,
    enchanting men
with tinsel vision
    along the vein,

cocks crow up a rival
    to mock your face
and eclipse that oval
    which conjured us

to leave our reason
    and come to this
fabled horizon
    of caprice.

Dawn shalt dissever
    your silver veil
which let lover think lover
    beautiful;

the light of logic
    will show us that
all moonstruck magic
    is dissolute:

no sweet disguises
    withstand that stare
whose candor exposes
    love's paling sphere.

In gardens of squalor
    the sleepers wake
as their golden jailer
    turns the rack;

each sacred body
    night yielded up
is mangled by study
    of microscope:

facts have blasted
    the angel's frame
and stern truth twisted
    the radiant limb.

Reflect in terror
    the scorching sun:
dive at your mirror
    and drown within.