Lunar Paraphrase
The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.
When, at the wearier end of November,
Her old light moves along the branches,
Feebly, slowly, depending upon them;
When the body of Jesus hangs in a pallor,
Humanly near, and the figure of Mary,
Touched on by hoar-frost, shrinks in a shelter
Made by the leaves, that have rotted and fallen;
When over the houses, a golden illusion
Brings back an earlier season of quiet
And quieting dreams in the sleepers in darkness —
The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.
~~
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), 1918
from Harmonium, 2nd edition, 1931
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
Wallace Stevens biography
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