Richard Hunt

HURLED from a fairy catapult,

Up like a song gone somersaulting,

Up like a dream to the white moon vaulting,

I hear your liquid voice exult.

Half to the moon I hear you sigh

Like trees, and ripple on like brooks;

The magic of the wild wood-nooks

You shake out through the silver sky.

Oh, tell me, are you bursting so

With secrets that the woodlands tell

That you must hurtle from the dell,

And up, so all the air shall know?

Are you a song and nothing else,

Gone tumbling up the night of June?

Is that your form against the moon,

That trembles, palpitates and melts?

Now your crescendos, note on note,

Like one last challenge wildly pour …

And then you float to earth once more—

Unseen, as dreams and silence float.