Dearest Luna,

I worry how your red crescent settles
Through the sooty skies of the west.
Might not you be colder in most kettles
Or on a board by iron pressed?
Is it too cold or way too hot
Upon the terminator's roving trace?
Is Earth the only moderate spot
In the vastidity of space?
What is the price of your extremes?
How many suitors have you lost
Within your lonely sea of dreams
When, with their orbits, you had crossed?
It's the swing in your librations
That has all the people peeping
Like those at their midnight stations
Who track the progress you've been keeping,
For some of us are dedicated fans
Of the way you light up the place.
We could use many more of your nightly scans
And their gently actinic grace...
And it's no use, try as we might,
To invent a more romantic light!