The glitter of faint stars beyond the moon,
The glitter of the frost upon the earth,
The lullabies that windless night may croon
To us who, weary, wait the ancient worth
Of stillness, of the high and holy mirth
Of winter night, the solemn paradise
Below the beaver moon: its silent birth
Of frost upon the grass, its sweet surprise
Of silver shade, blue light, the faithful eyes
Of Jupiter and Luna looking down
Upon a world half-fairyland, that lies
About us. Here the hours of night may crown
All things that walk within their mysteries
With beauties strange and unvoiced melodies.
I went out late last night, out into a cold but very quiet night. This sonnet expresses the world as it wrapped around me a little after midnight, a December full moon sparkling across the frosted ground as I walked. There was a thin, crisp rime even on the warm, furry backs of the horses. And the air was hard but still, oh so still.
I wrote the first part of the poem in my head, and attempted, with limited success, to transfer it onto my phone with chilly fingers, then completed it indoors a little before 2 a.m. A few critical tweaks on the wording this morning, and here it is.