Moonset

Past seven o'clock: time to be gone; Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up: A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup, Down to the door, and there is Coachman John. Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye; But John it appears has none of your grins and winks; Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks: Words come once in a mile, and always dry. Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right, Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night, Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon. Strangely near she seems, and terribly great: The world is dead: why are we travelling still? Nightmare silence grips my struggling will; We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate. 'When you come to consider the moon,' says John at last, And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand; 'And then there's some will say there's never a hand That made the world!' A flick, and the gates are passed. Out of the dim magical moonlit park, Out to the workday road and wider skies: There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise, And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark.