The far side of your moon is black,
And glorious grows the vine;
Ask anything of me you lack,
But only what is mine.
Yours is the great wheel of the sun
And yours the unclouded sky;
Then take my stars, take every one
But wear them openly.
Walking in splendor through the plain
For all the world to see,
Since none alive shall view again
The match of you and me.
Robert Graves
