She wakes her dim, uncoloured, voiceless hosts,
Ghost of the Sun, herself the sun of ghosts.
The mortal eyes that gaze too long on her
Of Reason's piercing ray defrauded are.
Light in itself doth feed the living brain;
That light, reflected, but makes darkness plain.
Mary Coleridge
451
THE WANING MOON
And like a dying lady, lean and pale,