Something there was that wavered in the night
It changed its shape, curved upways and down
Seemed to rise and fall and sally up again,
Like a mad dog cavorting in the haze
Of an empty distant street.
It grew, and shrank, seemed to disappear
And then it was again.
Was it just the moongleam
White and shaking on a windy leaf ?
Perhaps nothing moved outside my eyes.
If I could seize and spread its shape for all
I had doubtless then enriched their view.
But till I weave the means to net
This taunting dancer of my nights
I live with thought abate
And mind scurrying with schemes of capture.