The Moon

	God has set forth some perplexing matters

	all year round to hinder man.

	An empty–handed lover does not freely own

4	either night or day or anything else.

	Useless are the tree–tops of many a grove,

	I am sick for one of bright and gentle form.

	A man of Ovid's nature (I'm her brother)

8	will not venture to her land by day.

	After suffering severe distress

	success is no nearer — night prevents him.

	My gain, I know, will not be great,

12	nor my reward whilst it is a moonlit night.

	I'm well used to waiting beneath fair, thick woods,

	my eyes have always been dull with fear.

	The bright moon's worse than the sun,

16	it being so cold, and that was no small thing.

	Those wounds of sorrowful tears,

	woe to the thief who's being observed.

	A wide moon like a dazzling maid,

20	candle of the hard, cold weather.

	Troublesome with every new moon

	is the bloom of the day's radiance.

	A parish of a saint's construction,

24	water planet of all new growth.

	Every fortnight her routine —

	her home beneath heaven is night —

	is to take her course from there

28	(I'm deep in thought), growing ever larger

	until she becomes two halves,

	the stars' sun on a bright night.

	She hurls the tide, fair radiance,

32	she is the phantoms' sun.

	For a thief was there ever anything worse

	(most stifling gift) than a fair moonlit night?

	From his bed the Jealous One, silent,

36	with resolute intent, by the fairness of the moon above

	sees me here, near to him,

	in my lair beneath the fine twigs.

	That florin is most helpful to the husband,

40	towards her heavenly home she climbs.

	On my journey she was far too round,

	spur–rowel of the icy wind.

	She's a hindrance to a restless lover,

44	the nape of a loaf of frosts.

	She thwarts summer's arrant thief,

	she was too bright to allow a girl to venture out.

	Her bed is a circle way up high,

48	almighty God's portion of the fine weather above.

	She perceives where I am, world's candle,

	a cover, it's from the sky she rises.

	Her compass is as wide as the earth,

52	the refuge of the wild and civilized are all one colour.

	Her form is that of a finely meshed sieve,

	her rim is familiar with lightning.

	She's a path–walker in heaven's sky,

56	the shape of a lace, brass cauldron's brim.

	Power of a measuring–lamp of a star–bright field,

	a sphere from the bright blue sky.

	A sunless day, a base coin came,

60	it was annoying, driving me from my refuge.

	A brilliant image before the intense, bright hour of morning's prime,

	better for me if she would darken a little.

	In order to send persistent love–envoys

64	of goodly tidings to my splendid darling's home,

	whilst it is night, bright, cosy, fair,

	may God the Father make it dark outside.

	It would be a fine rule for our Lord,

68	by God, to grant us light by day,

	and grant us the night (and that would be our secret)

	in darkness, her and I.