Under the Moon Reading Yeats' "Under the Moon"
The waters of the ground are hung in air.
The porchlights fashion diadems of gold,
the moon plaits hers of silver in hair that drops like tears.
The trees are rivers black in the river Night—
run slow to seem asleep, trickle as to seem
a corse of dreams, let blood by the leeches of time.
Stirring now, the purpling tongues of poets;
memory plies her constellating art.
Yet all things run together—the elixir is a healer not of us.
It is drunk by the earth to the last, the very last;
the sun will come & find no mist to burn.