My Mother’s Moon

Just received this beautiful little series of images in an email from Mom, along with a sweet blessing and her own  hopeful suggestion that:

“‘Fools’ aren’t necessarily foolish, and that we can get what we most passionately want, if our imagination is strong enough.”

Tomorrow is my Mom’s birthday, and I wish you could all meet her and have a nice long chat. She’s very good at those. But, in a pale substitute, and by way of introduction to her excellent sense of whimsy and fondness for magical words, I thought I’d share these little things with you here.

Moon Folly
from The Songs of Conn the Fool

I will go up the mountain after the Moon:
She is caught in a dead fir-tree.
Like a great pale apple of silver and pearl,
Like a great pale apple is she.

I will leap and will catch her with quick, cold hands
And carry her home in my sack.
I will set her down safe on the oaken bench
That stands at the chimney-back.

And then I will sit by the fire all night,
And sit by the fire all day.
I will gnaw at the Moon to my heart’s delight
Till I gnaw her slowly away.

And as I grow mad with the Moon’s cold taste
The World will beat at my door,
Crying “Come out!” and crying “Make haste,
And give us the Moon once more!”

But I shall not answer them ever at all.
I shall laugh, as I count and hide
The great black beautiful Seeds of the Moon
In a flower-pot deep and wide.

Then I shall lie down and go fast asleep,
Drunken with flame and aswoon.
But the seeds will sprout and the seeds will leap,
The subtle swift seeds of the Moon.

And some day, all of the World that cries
And beats at my door shall see
A thousand moon-leaves spring from my thatch
On a wonderful white Moon-tree!

Each shall have Moons to his heart’s desire:
Apples of silver and pearl;
Apples of orange and copper fire
Setting his five wits aswirl!

And then they’ll thank me, who mock me now,
“Wanting the Moon is he,” ––
Oh, I’m off to the mountain after the Moon,
Ere she falls from the dead fir-tree!

––Fannie Stearns Davis

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

May you always have work for your hands to do.
May your pockets hold always a coin or two.
May the sun shine bright on your windowpane.
May the rainbow be certain to follow each rain.
May the hand of a friend always be near you.
And may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.

— Irish Blessing

Thanks Mom, and happy happy birthday!

_______________________________________________________________
Tried to research the source for these photos, and found them all over the internet,
but with no listed photographer.
Look familiar to anyone? I’d love to give credit where it’s due, and I’d love to see more of this photographer’s work!

Moon Folly
from The Songs of Conn the Fool

I will go up the mountain after the Moon:
She is caught in a dead fir-tree.
Like a great pale apple of silver and pearl,
Like a great pale apple is she.

I will leap and will catch her with quick cold hands
And carry her home in my sack.
I will set her down safe on the oaken bench
That stands at the chimney-back.

And then I will sit by the fire all night,
And sit by the fire all day.
I will gnaw at the Moon to my heart’s delight
Till I gnaw her slowly away.

And while I grow mad with the M oon’s cold taste
The World will beat at my door,
Crying “Come out!” and crying “Make haste,
And give us the Moon once more!”

But I shall not answer them ever at all.
I shall laugh, as I count and hide
The great black beautiful Seeds of the Moon
In a flower-pot deep and wide.

Then I shall lie down and go fast asleep,
Drunken with flame and aswoon.
But the seeds will sprout and the seeds will leap,
The subtle swift seeds of the Moon.

And some day, all of the World that cries
And beats at my door shall see
A thousand moon-leaves spring from my thatch
On a wonderful white Moon-tree!

Then each shall have Moons to his heart’s desire:
Apples of silver and pearl;
Apples of orange and copper fire
Setting his five wits aswirl!

And then they will thank me, who mock me now,
“Wanting the Moon is he,” ––
Oh, I’m off to the mountain after the Moon,
Ere she falls from the dead fir-tree!

––Fannie Stearns Davis

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