My eyes roam skyward, sailing East
and, though a week can seem a moon,
when senses, on such beauty, feast
the night will pass away too soon.
My soul is drawn, when sailing west,
to more than I can, safe, absorb,
I am, by heaven's grace, possessed,
enraptured by an ancient orb.
It follows that a moonlit sky
would call your memory to mind
no matter where my roving eye,
no matter where you are. I find
that, love, the distance can't eclipse,
I feel you heart-- if not your lips.
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