Patrizia Ames

Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul
Oh thou fair moon so cold and bright
Thy beauty makes me like the child
That cries aloud to own thy light
The little child that lifts each arm
to press thee to her bosom warm.

Though there are birds that sing the night
With thy white beam across their throats
Let my deep silence speak for me.
More then for them their sweetest notes
Who worship thee till music fails
is greater than thy nightingales.

W. H. Davies (1871-1940)