The sea is calm to-night The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.
It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sport and makes of cars In various bogus-Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the stars But belch instead.
When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, no breath or motion, As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.
...the Cambridge ladies do not care, above Cambridge if sometimes in its box of sky lavender and cornerless, the moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears; Men reckon what it did, and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.
For pay and medals, name and rank, Things that he has not found, He hove the Cross to heaven and sank The pole-star underground.
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
And here face down beneath the sun And here upon earth's noonward height To feel the always coming on The always rising of the night:
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth,— And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick; Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself; In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
The Archer is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven— Sleep safe till tomorrow.
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