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.