by Jewell Bothwell Tull
‘Tis said that nothing lives in the dark.
That growing things must have the light;
But I have seen the moon grow big
And beautiful at night.
And in the night my soul grows big
With doubt and hope and love and pain
That fade away with morning light,
Leaving me cold again.
The moon is made of old dead dreams,-
Pale echoes of a living sun;
The moon and I are lonely ghosts
That die when dreams are done.