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Gilles:
Aye, the Moon for me!
For I am of the lunar brotherhood.
She gazed upon us in our cradle-sleep
And with her whiteness all our cheeks grew pale.
Our wild eyes open'd wider, wondering,
Are glaucous as the grey moon-glassing sea,
Minions we of the fantastick Moon
Who sways her wistful wayward votaries,
And dowers them with kinship to the tides,
With wills that shift like reefs of quaking sand,
With fitful calm and fickle energy.
Our wits unstable wax and wane with Her!
Colette:
Fantastick truly the Moon's minions,
Who leave the world that roars beside their gate
To listen in an echo-breathing shell
How murmur dreamy memories of the sea.
Who mourn the bud when full the blossom blows
