Too many people write about the moon.
The night is black
The stars are small and high
The clock unwinds its ever-ticking tune
Hills gleam dimly
Distant nighthawks cry.
A radish rises in the waiting sky.
Thine be the glory, risen, conqu'ring Son; endless is the vict'ry Thou o’er death hast won. Angels in bright raiment rolled the stone…
- Gerard Manley Hopkins O Death, Death, He is come. O grounds of Hell make room. Who came from further than the stars Now comes as low beneath.…