VAGRANT VERSE
SONNET 3’o THE MOON. It is beyond my power to tell in song The brittle, haunting beauty of this night, Or lift dull words to that unmeasured height To which your presence and the stars belong. The ocean stabbed by each sharp, silver prong Erects with flowing fingers cool, and white, h liquid ladderway of running light, And crumbles what had seemed forever strong. Your smooth serenity can feel no fear Of my attempts to catch your globe in thrall; I reach to rise but find ray feet held here, And therefore reproduce your shining sphere, The calm translucence of your perfect ball, In rounded radiance of a falling tear. —P. P. Strachan.
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Bibliographic details
Southland Times, Issue 21650, 11 March 1932, Page 6
Word Count
115VAGRANT VERSE Southland Times, Issue 21650, 11 March 1932, Page 6
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