Poem By George Wootton
What man can tell what wondrous beauties
have past but once this way
unseen by human eye because
t’was closed in sleep at end of day.
What glorious form did but for
a scarce tick in time appear,
silhouetted against full moon
for nighttime lovers to hold dear.
What breeze-blown apparitions formed
sylphlike shadows against dim starlight’s glow
to n’ere be seen nor discoursed
by sleeping man’s disremembered soul.
The shapes of clouds, some but a wisp
unperceived by nocturnal eye,
while others convulse and terrify,
belch volleys of fire and balls of ice.
Some gently float on summer’s zephyr
as stately ships on silvery seas
while others stay and rest awhile
perhaps for moonlight lovers to please.