The one moonlight, in the simple-colored night,

Like a plain poet revolving in his mind

The sameness of his various universe,

Shines on the mere objectiveness of things.

It is as if being was to be observed,

As if, among the possible purposes

Of what one sees, the purpose that comes first,

The surface, is the purpose to be seen,

The property of the moon, what it evokes.

It is to disclose the essential presence, say,

Of a mountain, expanded and elevated almost

Into a sense, an object the less; or else

To disclose in the figure waiting on the road

An object the more, an undetermined form

Between the slouchings of a gunman and a lover,

A gesture in the dark, a fear one feels

In the great vistas of night air, that takes this form,

In the arbors that are as if of Saturn-star.

So, then, this warm, wide, weatherless quietude

Is active with a power, an inherent life,

In spite of the mere objectiveness of things,

Like a cloud-cap in the comer of a looking-glass,

A change of color in the plain poet’s mind,

Night and silence disturbed by an interior sound,

The one moonlight, the various universe, intended

So much just to be seen—a purpose, empty

Perhaps, absurd perhaps, but at least a purpose,

Certain and ever more fresh. Ah! Certain, for sure …