The nights I have gazed
   to the black shore and back
the stars, themselves, appraised
   the worth of the black.

To sail solar flares
   and to ride without wings
among the sparkling heirs
   we are mere fledgelings.

How errant I am
   to seek cloudy castles.
Across dark skies I swam
   to meet the battles,

Only to be late
   with my compass at hand.
It was clearly a stalemate
   upon the land.

What Man in the Moon—
   What Spirit of the Night—
Could make a cricket croon?
   Or claim the starlight?

So shall I never
   know who hung the moon up
'til sweet death endeavors
   or until sunup.

The willowy wind
   sends my thoughts to the sky;
And the Moon simply grins
   from his perch up high.

Who hung the moon?
   Who hung the moon?