When I grow old and withered
And have nought, but me, myself, and I;
And have lost all: mind, courage, be it strength or wisdom,
I will have her.
She, who comes and goes fortnightly, and pierces
A perfect hole in that dark-night,
Making brighter this dim-light.
She, who accompanies me when all is silent, yet ever-violent.
Her white which stands lone, in the even lonelier black.
She, who makes even oceans reach for her glow. This moon
That calms my thoughts which her mute tune—
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