Here you will find the Poem Moonlight of poet John Crowe Ransom
HE feigned a fine indifference To be so prodigal of light, Knowing his piteous twisted things Would lose the crooked marks of spite When only moonbeams fit the dusk And made his wicked world seem right. But we forget so soon the shame, Conceiving sweetness if we can Heaven the citadel itself Illumined on the lunar plan; And I the chief of sinners, I The middlemost Victorian! Now I shall ride the misty lake With my own love, and speak so low That not a fishy thing shall hear The secrets passing to and fro Amid the moonlight poetries. O moonshine, how unman us so?
