I sat here as a boy
On these winter rocks, watching
The moon-shapes change on the skies;
Nor did I know then the moon
Only affects her mortality.

Now no more does a boy
Ah Moon! from these rocks
Or through a frosted window, cry;
And for a dying curve
The wider heart weeps not.

Then why to these rocks
Do I return, why,
The last quarter being nearly
Wasted, does the breath 
Return dragoning the night?

Unless it be the soul
Is such and such a country
Cut by shape and light
That would be whole again,
So must be dark.