What the Tired Reformer Said
The moon's a perfect city, with
Curved walls encompa**ed round;
With yellow palaces upreared
Upon a glittering ground.
Sometimes a disk, a planet dead;
But on this splendid night,
When all the sky is shining clear,
When my whole heart is light,
I think it is a place for friends.
My soul is there in mirth,
With golden-robed good-citizens,
Far from the dusty earth.
Hail to the perfect city then!
I love your doors and domes,
Your turrets and your palaces,
Your terraces, your homes.