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The Man in the Moon had silver shoon,
  and his beard was of silver thread;
With opals crowned and pearls all bound
  about his girdlestead,
In his mantle grey he walked one day
  across a shining floor,
And with crystal key in secrecy
  he opened an ivory door.

On a filigree stair of glimmering hair
  then lightly down he went,
And merry was he at last to be free
  on a mad adventure bent.
In diamonds white he had lost delight;
  he was tired of his minaret
Of tall moonstone that towered alone
  on a lunar mountain set.

He would dare any peril for ruby and beryl
  to broider his pale attire,
For new diadems of lustrous gems,
  emerald and sapphire.
So was lonely too with nothing to do
  but stare at the world of gold
And heark to the hum that would distantly come
  as gaily round it rolled.

At plenilune in his argent moon
  in his heart he longed for Fire:
Not the limpid lights of wan selenites;
  for red was his desire,

For crimson and rose and ember-glows,
  for flame with burning tongue,
For the scarlet skies in a swift sunrise
  when a stormy day is young.

He'd have seas of blues, and the living hues
  of forest green and fen;
And he yearned for the mirth of the populous earth
  and the sanguine blood of men.
He coveted song, and laughter long,
  and viands hot, and wine,
Eating pearly cakes of light snowflakes
  and drinking thin moonshine.

He twinkled his feet, as he thought of the meat,
  of pepper, and punch galore;
And he tripped unaware on his slanting stair,
  and like a meteor,
A star in flight, ere Yule one night
  flickering down he fell
From his laddery path to a foaming bath
  in the windy Bay of Bel.

He began to think, lest he melt and sink,
  what in the moon to do,
When a fisherman's boat found him far afloat
  to the amazement of the crew,
Caught in their net all shimmering wet
  in a phosphorescent sheen
Of bluey whites and opal lights
  and delicate liquid green.

Against his wish with the morning fish
  they packed him back to land:
'You had best get a bed in an inn', they said;
  'the town is near at hand'.
Only the knell of one slow bell
  high in the Seaward Tower
Announced the news of his moonsick cruise
  at that unseemly hour.

Not a hearth was laid, not a breakfast made,
  and dawn was cold and damp.
There were ashes for fire, and for grass the mire,
  for the sun a smoking lamp
In a dim back-street. Not a man did he meet,
  no voice was raised in song;
There were snores instead, for all folk were abed
  and still would slumber long.

He knocked as he passed on doors locked fast,
  and called and cried in vain,
Till he came to an inn that had light within,
  and tapped at a window-pane.
A drowsy cook gave a surly look,
  and 'What do you want?' said he.
'I want fire and gold and songs of old
  and red wine flowing free!'

'You won't get them here', said the cook with a leer,
  'but you may come inside.
Silver I lack and silk to my back-
  maybe I'll let you bide'.
A silver gift the latch to lift,
  a pearl to pass the door;
For a seat by the cook in the ingle-nook
  it cost him twenty more.

For hunger or drouth naught passed his mouth
  till he gave both crown and cloak;
And all that he got, in an earthen pot
  broken and black with smoke,
Was porridge cold and two days old
  to eat with a wooden spoon.
For puddings of Yule with plums, poor fool,
  he arrived so much too soon:
An unwary guest on a lunatic quest
  from the Mountains of the Moon.

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