A race raised in moonlight,
Eyes conformed to twilight,
Adrift through silver dimness
Convinced they clearly see.
They point to a pale moon
And praise the palisades of
Lunar beams that
Mark out every path
And all the proper ways.
But what? Now the sky turns gray,
And reds glow ‘cross their silver,
Splay a tarnish on its cleanness
To be scoured before it stains.
So grows a light that soon outshines
Their sight and all their guiding lines
‘Til blinded, they can’t see their moon
Bow white before the dazzling
Noontime Sun that walks the day.