The sun is a thief: she lures the sea
and robs it. The moon is a thief:
he steals his silvery light from the sun.
The sea is a thief: it dissolves the moon.

The thief left it behind:
the moon
at my window.

Prometheus-like from heaven she stole The fire that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal In lengthened flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curled to give her neck caresses.

The poet must steal fire from the heavens.

It is no secret that the moon has no light of her own, but is, as it were, a mirror, receiving brightness from the influence of the sun.

The moon likes secrets,” Meran said. “And secret things. She lets mysteries bleed into her shadows and leaves us to ask whether they originated from otherworlds, or from our own imaginations.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,
The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

I feel a little like the moon who took possession of you for a moment and then returned your soul to you. You should not love me. One ought not to love the moon. If you come too near me, I will hurt you.

One was a book thief. The other stole the sky.

There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery.

Shine, Moon of the night, horned Moon, who lovest to look on revels, shine through the lattice and let your light fall on golden Callistiŏn. It is no offence for an immortal to pry into the secrets of lovers. Thou dost bless her and me, I know, O Moon; for did not Endymion set thy soul afire?

Thus the sun which possesses light perfectly, can shine by itself; whereas the moon which has the nature of light imperfectly, sheds only a borrowed light.

The moon was drenching the sky with loneliness. (p107)