This same evening that I write I witnessed,
Resting on a bench and looking westward,
Beyond the blood-red rose-engarrisoned footpath,
And the dun green flatlands where a few human lights glimmered,
Wild indigo and magenta rainstorms invested
The dark recesses of the mountain ranges.
Clouds overhead burst into cornelian flames,
Transmuting by their strange glow all the garden pigments.
Then was revealed in a dim turquoise interstice,
A very young, remote, and slender, but outshining,
But all predominant moon.
In such an hour the soul finds an appeasement
Not justified by reasons of commonsense.
In that hour she asks of the inscrutable
No more petulant questions.
From a Garden in the Antipodes (Sidgwick & Jackson, 1929)