The Chase

When I was a boy-say six, say seven-

I hunted the moon as she rose in heaven.

I charged the hilltop at her touch

And missed her, breathless, but not by much.

Hand over fist I followed her till

From the topmost branch on the tallest hill

I saw her make off over my head.

Then I climbed down and went to bed.

I'm older, twenty-some, and sorry

That these, my less elusive quarry,

Are not as fleet as she had been;

For when I've kissed them, mouth and chin,

And made all manner of love that I

Invent or story-books supply,

They do not simply saunter on

And, like the setting moon, begone.