To the moon

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

I forgot who wrote this. But I just like this poem. I like the moon. There's something ethereal and sublime in its cyclical changing of shape, from being a full moon to slowly being 'eaten' until only a slice is left.

I read a story once, about the moon disappearing from its place in the sky. Because there was no moon in the sky, people carried about lantern moons. But after a while, people got used to dark moonless nights.

I don't think I'll ever get used to moonless nights. I know we sometimes don't get to see the moon because it's hidden behind the clouds. But it is comforting to just know that, somewhere, out there, the moon is still palely loitering.

That's the thing about the moon isn't it. It's quite dispendable, practically speaking. Without the sun, plants won't grow and we won't have food. But moonlessness will merely mean still seas since it's the presence of the moon that creates tides.

The moon is a funny thing. With its mere existence, it makes the world, my world at least, a much more beautiful place.

I sometimes think the moon was made to remind us, it's not necessarily the doing that makes you beautiful. Just be being, it makes all the difference, between a moon-lit night and a dark lightless night.

Good night.