The 15 most beautiful poems about the moon!
The moon is one of the wonders of creation to which man has always looked with admiration and ardor, so much so that he cannot help but reach the surface and know the mystery.
Moreover, the connection that the moon has with the many phenomena of the Earth is well known, especially with human nature, whose course and course it influences.
In fact, there are many famous phrases that the moon has inspired over time, becoming the protagonist of intense poems full of pathos that have now entered history.
Below you will find 15 poems on the moon to celebrate its beauty and unfathomable mystery: from the manifest poetry of Giacomo Leopardi, a tireless singer of moon magic, to the phrases of decadent and romantic poets such as Baudelaire or Edgar Allan Poe.
Here are all the most beautiful phrases that have ever been dedicated to the moon.
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1. The moon has set, Sappho
The moon has set
together with the Pleiades
the night is in its midst
time passes
I sleep alone.
2. To the moon, Giacomo Leopardi
O pretty moon, I remember
Which, now turns the year, over this hill
I come full of anguish to gaze at you:
And you were hanging on that forest then
Since you do now, let it all light up.
But hazy and trembling with tears
That rose on my edge, in my lights
Your face appears, how troubled
It was my life: and it is, nor does it change style,
O my beloved moon.
And yet it benefits me
The remembrance, and the noverar l'etate
Of my pain. Oh how grateful it is
In the youthful time, when still long
The hope is short, the memory has the course,
The remembrance of past things,
Even how sad, and that the trouble lasts!
3. Could my hands leaf through the moon, Federico García Lorca
I say your name
in the dark nights,
when the stars arise
to drink from the moon
and the branches sleep
of occult spots.
And I feel empty
of music and passion.
Crazy clock ringing
ancient dead hours.
I say your name
on this dark night,
and your name rings out
further away than ever.
Farther than all the stars
and more painful than the sweet rain.
I'll love you like then
sometimes? What a fault
has this heart of mine ever?
If the fog clears,
what new passion awaits me?
Will it be quiet and pure?
Could my hands
browse the moon!
4. Moonlight, Victor Hugo
The moon was clear and played on the water.
Finally free and open the window to the breeze,
and the sultan observes: the sea breaking
over there and the black rocks embroidered with silver.
The vibrating guitar slips from her hand,
listen to the deaf echo of an opaque noise:
perhaps a Turkish vessel, with its Tartar oars
from the beaches of Kos to the Greek shores?
Or are the cormorants with their slow dives
and with wings beaded by the water just moved?
Or a ginn's up there blows the dull voice
and stones from the tower does it fall into the sea?
Who near the menagerie dares to disturb the water?
Nor the black cormorant with the caressed wave;
neither the stones of the walls, nor the rhythmic sound
of a vessel that trudges on the water with oars.
They are heavy sacks from which a lament comes.
It would be seen by scrutinizing the water that pushes them
like a human form attempting a movement ...
The moon was clear and played on the water.
5. O crescent of the waning moon, Gabriele D "Annunzio
Or waning crescent moon
that shines on the deserted waters,
or silver sickle, what a harvest of dreams
sways in your mild glow down here!
Short breaths of leaves,
sighs of flowers from the woods
they exhale to the sea: I don't sing, I don't cry
I do not sound for the vast silence goes.
Oppressed by love, by pleasure,
the living populace falls asleep ...
O waning sickle, what a harvest of dreams
sways in your mild glow down here!
6. Sadness of the moon, Charles Baudelaire
Lazy tonight, she is dreaming of the moon:
beauty who on a pile of pillows,
light and distracted, before sleeping
caresses the contour of her breasts,
on the silky back of soft avalanches,
dying, he abandons himself to infinite sweats,
and turns his eyes where white visions
they rise in the blue like flowers.
When on this earth, in its lazy languor,
let a tear streak down,
an adoring poet and hostile to sleep
in his hand he picks up that wet pallor
with iridescent opal reflections, and hides it
away from the eyes of the sun, in his heart.
7. Waning Moon, Percy Bysshe Shelley
And like a dying lady that pale
and gaunt wrapped in a veil
diaphanous comes out staggering
from his room, and it's senseless
uncertain raving of the mind
lost that guide, the moon
a mass arose in the dark east
deformed whitening.
8. Song to the moon, Alda Merini
The moon moans on the seabed,
or God how much fear dead
of these earthly hedges,
or how many astonished looks
rising from the dark
to grab you in the wounded soul.
The moon weighs on all of our selves
and also when you are near the end
you smell the moon
always on the battered bushes
from bellows
from the parodies of fate.
I was born a gypsy, I have no fixed place in the world,
but perhaps in the moonlight
I'll stop your moment,
enough to give you
a single kiss of love.
9. The new moon, Carl Sandburg
The new moon, a canoe, a small silver canoe,
sails and sails among the Indians of the West.
A circle of silver foxes, a fog of silver foxes,
they stand and are around the Indian moon.
A yellow star for a runner,
and rows of blue stars for many runners,
they maintain a line of sentries.
O foxes, new moon, runners,
you are the picture of memory, white fire that writes
tonight the dreams of the red man.
Who sits, with his legs crossed and his arms folded,
looking at the moon and the faces of the stars of the west?
Who are the ghosts of the Mississippi Valley,
with copper foreheads, riding sturdy ponies in the night?
Unbridled the arms on the pony necks,
riding in the night, a long, ancient path?
Because they always come back
when the silver foxes sit around the new moon,
a silver canoe in the Indian West?
10. The evening star, Edgar Allan Poe
Summer was at its noon,
and the night at its height;
and each star, in its own orbit,
she shone pale, even in the light
of the moon, which brighter and colder,
ruled among the slaves planets,
absolute lady in the skies -
and, with its ray, on the waves.
For a while I stared
his cold smile;
oh, too cold - too cold for me!
It passed, like a shroud,
a fluffy cloud,
and then I turned to you,
proud evening star,
to your remote flame,
dearer having your ray;
since it rejoices me more
the proud part
that you carry out in the sky at night,
and more I admire
your distant fire
than that colder, usual light.
11. The moon, William Henry Davies
Your beauty haunts me heart and soul,
Oh, beautiful Moon, so close and so bright;
Your beauty makes me like the baby
Who cries aloud to possess your light:
The little boy who raises each arm
to hug you to your warm chest.
Even if there are birds that sing tonight
With your white rays on their throats,
Let my deep silence speak for me
More than their sweetest notes for them:
Who adores you until the music fails,
It is bigger than your nightingales.
12. To the moon, Vivian Lamarque
Uninhabited the moon?
But she is its white inhabitant.
Condominium and home
inhabitant and inhabited
pale tenant
window and facing.
13. It's time, George Gordon Byron
It is the hour in which it is heard among the branches
the acute note of the nightingale;
is the time when the vows of lovers
they seem sweet in every whispered word
and mild winds and nearby waters
they are music to the lonely ear.
Mild dew has wet every flower
and the stars have risen in the sky
and there is a deeper blue on the wave
and in the skies that clear darkness,
softly dark and darkly pure,
following the decline of the day while
under the moon the twilight is lost.
14. On the moon, Gianni Rodari
On the moon, please
do not send a general:
would make it a barracks
with the trumpet and the corporal.
Don't send us a banker
on the silver satellite,
or puts it in the safe
to show it for a fee.
Don't send us a minister
with his retinue of ushers:
would fill up with paperwork
the lunatic craters.
He has to be a poet
on the moon to moon:
with his head in the moon
he has been there for a long time ...
To dream the best dreams
has long been accustomed to:
knows how to hope for the impossible
even when he is desperate.
Now that dreams and hopes
become true as flowers,
on the moon and on the earth
make way for the dreamers!
15. Night song of a wandering shepherd from Asia, Giacomo Leopardi
What are you doing, moon, in heaven? tell me, what are you doing?
Silent moon?
Arise in the evening, and go,
Contemplating the deserts; then you lay down.
You're still not paying
To go back to the eternal streets?
You still do not take shy, you are still vague
To look at these valleys?
It looks like your life
The life of the shepherd.
It rises in the first dawn
Move the flock across the field, and see
Flocks, fountains and herbs;
Then tired he rests up in the evening:
Other never ispera.
Tell me, oh moon: what's the point
To the shepherd his life,
Your life to you? tell me: where it tends
This short wandering of mine,
Your immortal course?
Old white, infirm,
Half dressed and barefoot,
With a very heavy bundle up your shoulders,
By mountain and by valley,
For sharp stones, and high sand, and broken,
In the wind, in the storm, and when it blazes
The time, and when it freezes,
Run away, run, yearn,
Cross streams and ponds,
It falls, rises again, and the more and more it hurries,
Without laying or refreshment,
Torn, bloody; until it arrives
There where the way
And where so much toil was aimed:
Horrid, immense abyss,
Where he falls, everything forgets.
Virgin moon, such
It is mortal life.
Man is born with difficulty,
And birth is at risk of death.
He feels pain and torment
First of all; and in on the principle itself
The mother and the parent
The takes to console for being born.
Then as it grows up,
The one and the other supports it, and so on
With deeds and with words
Study to make him heart,
And console him for the human state:
Another more grateful office
One does not act as relatives to their offspring.
But why give it to the sun,
Why hold on to life
Who then of that consular agrees?
If life is misfortune,
Why does it last with us?
Intact moon, such
It is the mortal state.
But you are not mortal,
And perhaps my little to say the least.
Even you, lonely, eternal pilgrim,
That so thoughtful you are, maybe you mean,
This earthly living,
Our suffering, sighing, be it;
Let it be this death, this supreme
Discolor of the semblant,
And perish from the earth, and fail
To each used, company lover.
And you certainly understand
The why of things, and see the fruit
In the morning, in the evening,
Of the silent, infinite passage of time.
You know, certainly you, what a sweet love of hers
Laugh the spring,
Who benefits from the ardor, and what do you procure
The winter with its ice.
You know a thousand things, you discover a thousand things,
Which are hidden from the simple shepherd.
Often when I aim for you
To stay so silent on the flat desert,
Which, in its distant circle, borders on the sky;
That is with my flock
Follow me traveling hand by hand;
And when I look in the sky, the stars will burn;
I say to myself thinking:
What so many facelle?
What makes the air infinite, and that deep
Infinite Seren? what does this mean
Immense loneliness? and what am I?
So I talk to me: and of the room
Huge and superb,
It belongs to the innumerable family;
Then of so much use, of so many motions
Of every heavenly, every earthly thing,
Spinning ceaselessly,
To always go back to whence they moved;
I use any, any fruit
Guess I don't know. But you for sure,
Immortal young girl, you know everything.
This I know and feel,
That of the eternal turns,
That of being my brother,
Some good or happy
Perhaps it will have others; to me life is bad.
O my flock that you lay, oh you blessed,
What your misery, I think, you do not know!
How much envy I bring you!
Not just because of breathlessness
Almost free go;
That every hardship, every damage,
Every extreme fear is immediately forgotten;
But more because you never feel bored.
When you sit in the shade, above the grass,
You are calm and happy;
And most of the year
Without boredom you consume in that state.
And I also sit on the grass, in the shade,
And a nuisance clutters me
The mind, and a spron almost stings me
Yes that, sitting down, I am far more than ever
To find peace or a place.
And yet I do not long for anything,
And up to now I have no cause for tears.
What you enjoy or how much,
I don't know already; but lucky you are.
And I still enjoy little,
O my flock, nor do I complain of this alone.
If you knew how to speak, I would ask:
Tell me: why lying
At ease, idle,
Every animal is satisfied;
Me, if I lie at rest, does boredom assail?
Maybe if I had the wing
To fly above the clouds,
And number the stars one by one,
Or like thunder wandering from yoke to yoke,
Happier I would be, my sweet flock,
Happier I would be, white moon.
Or maybe he is wrong from the truth,
Aiming at the fate of others, my thoughts:
Perhaps in what form, in which
Whether it is, inside a covile or cuna,
It is fatal to those born on Christmas.
