HABIBI

(After the Arabic)

Take the moon from that tree's branches, it's yours
  For good, although it is not mine to give
  Our hearts would mitigate its theft and shrive,
Regretting nothing, their own guilt and course.
Closely they're set upon a narrow sea,
  Loom toward that distant white shore where they'll beach
  On a place where no hand or heart can reach
Home to dreamless lands that grow no such tree.

Even now as your pale clouds net the moon
  So fancies dim, but prove that it is gone.
In love these things occur, and we'll know soon
  Nearing night's end if, when the mad moon shone,
Each half-slept vision was a dream of noon
  Demanding sense, or if you'll take the sun.
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