James Agee

The Shadow

   The moon from shred to sickle grows,
   Greatens to a monstrous tear,
   Fattens almost overnight
   Into a drunk o'erladen sphere:

   Loses its rotundity,
   Madly greets approaching doom;
   Sickle dwindles into shred,
   Shred melts grateful into gloom.

So, for a space, the Shadow will relent,
Befooling us with slow yet sure consent:
And, in due time, once more it will return,
Cooly to blot out what once more must burn.