Sadness of the Moon, by Charles Baudelaire

Tonight the moon dreams more lazily,
like a beauty sunk between cushions,
that with a distracted and light hand caresses,
before falling asleep, the outline of her breasts.

On the silken back of sliding clouds,
fainting, he surrenders to long ecstasies,
and looks over white visions,
that ascend to blue like blooms.

When upon this globe, with idle languor,
She lets a furtive tear roll down,
a pious poet, enemy of sleep,

In the cavity of his hand, he takes the cold tear
like a fragment of opal with iridescent reflections.
And he keeps it in his chest, away from the gaze of the sun.

This poem, which is part of the The flowers of evilthe most famous work of the French poet, is a reflection on loneliness, unsatisfied desire and the contrast between beauty and pain. Personify the moon as a lonely and melancholic woman who contemplates the world from afarshedding tears that mix with the stars.

To the Moon by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Does fatigue make you pale
to contemplate the earth and to climb the heavens,
wandering without any company,
surrounded by stars of a different lineage,
subject to inconstancy, like a sad eye
that he finds no object worthy of his perseverance?

This short and reflective poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley personifies the moon as a tired and lonely wanderer and explores themes such as loneliness, change and perseverance in a world where everything seems fleeting and unsatisfying.

Romance of the Moon, Moon, by Federico García Lorca

(To Conchita García Lorca)

The moon came to the forge
with his tuberose bustle.
The boy looks at her.
The boy is looking at her.

In the moved air
the moon moves its arms
and teaches, lubricious and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.
Flee moon, moon, moon.
If the gypsies came,
would do with your heart
white necklaces and rings.
Boy, let me dance.
When the gypsies come,
They will find you on the anvil
with eyes closed.
Flee moon, moon, moon,
I already feel their horses.
Child, leave me, don’t step
my starched whiteness.

The rider was approaching
playing the drum of the plain.
Inside the forge the child,
He has his eyes closed.

Through the olive grove they came,
bronze and dream, the gypsies.
Heads raised
and half-closed eyes.

How the zumaya sings,
Oh how it sings in the tree!
The moon goes through the sky
with a child by the hand.

Inside the forge they cry,
shouting, the gypsies.
The air sails, sails.
The air is watching over her.

This famous poem by Lorca intertwines themes such as death, innocence and the mystical presence of the moon. It tells us about the inevitability of destiny and the supernatural influence of the moon.

Of the beautiful moon, by Sappho

The stars are close to the beautiful moon
towards the back they hide the bright face
when that one shines completely full
on earth…

This beautiful poem of Greek poetess Sappho describes the deep full moon effect in the night sky and the stars. Capture a moment when the moon is at its fullest, making nearby stars appear to retreat or hide from its overwhelming brightness.

A Clear Midnight by Walt Whitman

This is your hour, my soul; that of your free flight towards the unspeakable.
Far from books and art, the day consumed and the lesson taught,
whole you emerge, silent and contemplative, to consider the issues
What do you love most:
the night, the dream, death and the stars.

Whitman tells us here about journey of the soul away from the limitations of everyday lifetowards a state of deep contemplation and spiritual exploration. Night, sleep, death and the stars are themes with deep meaning that convey a feeling of freedom and connection with the universe.

To the Moon, by Manuel Acuña

Oh moon, white moon,
That from the sky you pour your radiance
Despite all the vapors
Because the black night bothers you,
I know that by allowing myself to trust
I dare to abuse singing to you,
Before talking to you about anything else I must
Give you an explanation for my delay;
But knowing, because that’s how I’ve seen it,
I don’t remember where,
That you are noble and generous and good
With all the proselytes of art,
Among those who I register when protesting you
That nothing is worth it without you,
I leave the fulfillments
And the futile and vain excuses
In order to take advantage of these moments,
That you when you see that on my lips
The estrus stirs and my silence is truncated,
You will remember that the common people and even the wise
They say it’s better later than never.

No, and look: for a long time
I was thinking of coming to greet you,
And I even remember that I went out one night
Without any other object than that;
But although the very illustrious City Council
It made me believe that I would find you in heaven,
You, who were probably bad,
You hid and gave me an antechamber
That still weighs on my body.

I’m not telling you this
For throwing a jibe or a reproach at you;
But this black forest is my witness
That nothing more than to talk to you
I was around here all night.
Same as again, I don’t remember anymore
If it was in April or May… sighing
To see you face to face
And spend the entire night at your side,
In a manner and manner
Of being alone and far from people,
I come, and you who undoubtedly believed me
Some of those moaners
Because he is desperate and sad
He already wants you to give him a couple of kisses,
As soon as you saw me behind these poplars,
That hiding in the middle of the clouds
You closed your balcony and went inside.

And the truth is that if this was your idea
Given my untimely appearance,
On my life I swear to you and I answer you,
That you took the biggest disappointment
That you have carried since you were a moon;
Well, although at my age
It is used among human hearts
Count the sufferings in abundance,
And also the disappointments galore,
If I have suffered something
Of my existence in the short career,
I have the intimate and great conviction
That nobody cares,
Because if I suffer there is no one to send it to me;
If when you step on the thorns of life
I dare to shed a tear,
I let her escape from my eyes
And when it reaches my lips I drink it.

So you’ll see if I would be
Who would bother you at such an hour,
To call you lonely or cold,
And thus commit a rude thing
One of those that ladies don’t forgive,
Apart from you, if I’m not mistaken,
You must care very little
That in annoying life
Walk joy along with harm;
Just as at the time of flowers
Follow the foggy and cold winter,
Or that on the warm summer nights
The heat decreases in force,
Something that takes many people out of their homes.
For pride to tell you,
When all that doesn’t really happen
To be a truth of Pero Grullo.

And without mentioning people,
The illustrious Avellaneda walks there,
May he sleep in peace in his bed of crowns,
That without looking at you, wheel that rolls,
Damn the case that you made of time,
She to the sound of her magical staffs
I betrayed you to that nefarious thief
That so many joys passing robs us,
Without hearing her husband waking up
He called her in a not very soft tone.
After searching the entire bedroom.

And the peerless Zorrilla,
The one who gave us that nonsense
That I admired so much as a boy
Believing it the eighth wonder,
The one who with a calm
Whose mold is difficult to find,
He did here, among other dramas, that of the belly,
And he went there to remember the one in his soul.

And Carpio, the one who disguised himself as a Turk
He suffered such deep sorrow
That he almost threw himself into the salt sea;
But in the end it went the other way
Dragging the cutlass through the sand.

And Tagle, the one who spoke to you back in the days
Of civil discord,
When Rocha was not around the world
And when the rifles were still flintlock,
Well these and others, if not as good
Yes so idle,
They have embarked full of enthusiasm
The imitation of their ancestors,
For the pleasure of repeating something to you
Of those foolish and insipid nonsense,
Or because the volumes of poetry are made
It will not be missing from the index: —“To the moon.”

And if at least they were passable
The many that have been written in your praise
And whose signatures out of prudence I keep silent,
Well, sir, with three hundred horsemen,
Very put in its place and very pretty;
But, nothing… among those that I do not mention
Because don’t call me impertinent,
There are many (I do not offend this one)
They are a true gregory.

I say it and I repeat it,
Yes, sir, this is not a hint,
Well, even if someone jumps
That wishing to escape this reproach,
Claim the word and manifest
Loaded with reasons and poison,
that nothing good can be done
On a terrain as vulgar as this,
There being no small or large obligation
To write about this or that subject,
It is understood and seen very clearly,
Although I speak of this with so little appreciation,
That the culprit is not her but the fool
That he gets into an eleven-hour shirt.

Who forces anyone
Of the living souls to whom I write,
No less for it to rise so high
That I have to write about the moon…?

Myself, yes tomorrow
To some lazy and demanding critic
If he wanted
To spank this silva la pavana,
And to do it in front of people,
Well, myself, even if it was to my spite
(Not being able to forget that it is mine)
Looking at justice I would not have
More than to say everything: very well done.

And it is so true that I find it fair,
And I am very afraid of a download
For having gone out with my taste,
That in order that the grim wise man
Don’t find this forest too long,
Once you, moon,
You don’t have to console me if this happens,
Which (here in confidence) may very well
By a cruel whim of fortune,
Well convinced that in any case
Frank and loyal we will continue to be
As friends as before,
I leave you preparing for the dawn
The sweet nectar of new brooches,
And without more to tell you for now,
With my soul, your humble servant,
I’ll be glad you have a good night.

He mexican poetlike many other romantic poets, uses the moon as a reflection of human emotionsespecially sadness and nostalgia.

The moon is confidant and silent witness of suffering of the poet, who transmits deep emotional pain.