Poetry Archives

The sun was black with judgment, and the moon
        Blood: but between
I saw a man stand, saying, ‘To me at least
        The grass is green.

‘There was no star that I forgot to fear
        With love and wonder.
The birds have loved me’; but no answer came—
        Only the thunder.

Once more the man stood, saying, ‘A cottage door,
        Wherethrough I gazed
That instant as I turned—yea, I am vile;
        Yet my eyes blazed.

‘For I had weighed the mountains in a balance,
        And the skies in a scale,
I come to sell the stars—old lamps for new—
        Old stars for sale.’

Then a calm voice fell all the thunder through,
        A tone less rough:
‘Thou hast begun to love one of my works
        Almost enough.’