Midnight Moon

This ghostly rider of the sky that spillsPallid quicksilver over field and shore,May be herself the home of ghosts that pourOver her town plateaux and pockmarked hills.Here, we may think, the lover's shade fulfillsIts tryst with some dear phantom lost before;And throneless kings, and warriors slain may soarWhere the faint moonlight seeps in spectral rills.

And this perhaps is why when, cold and clear,Slow radiance floats across a midnight wall,We seem to feel a Presence standing near,A formless Something where the shadows fall,And sadness moves us, and an eerie fearWhile the low winds, like astral voices, call.