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 a distant empty 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 at all.
If I could seize and spread its shape for all to see,
doubtless I might enrich 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.