Sonnet addressed to the Moon

Sonnet addressed to the Moon
by Steve Rogers

O Moon, thou Mistress of the rushing Night
Whose silent Howl arouses hidden Souls
While scudding Clouds occlude thee, pale with Fright
And Meteors spurt and die like scattered Coals:

Dost thou look down with Sneers and cold Disdain
As scurrying Mortals strive to conquer Fate?
We, learning nothing, rage against the Rain
And cut each other down at Death's dark Gate.

Or hast thou naught but Pity for our Lot?
And dost thou weep to see such Plight?
Art joyful when our Breaths wax hot
And Heroes' Deeds infuse this Pit with Light?

Still, Moon, thou'lt shine on Desolation when we take our Bow and go;
Thine Eye may yet from time to time perceive thine earthly Rivals' Glow.