Small moon, each night you hold us in your arc

Though ever fluid in your form and in your path

You dimly vanquish sacred night’s dread dark

And soften our vile actions’ aftermath.

Symbol of longing, love and sweet desire

Of dark despair or hopeless lonely grief

See how the poet prays your silver beams inspire

A sonnet on a shower or a falling leaf.

What are you, moon, a minor spinning rock

Whose light reflected from another greater sphere

Must pale and suffer modern man to mock

and leave your magic to long-dead Shakespeare.

But lovers, tell me, do you burn and swoon
For an email or twitter prompted by the moon?