Poem by Wallace Stevens

Text:

The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.?

When, at the wearier end of november,?
Her old light moves along the branches,?
Feebly, slowly, depending upon them;?
When the body of Jesus hangs in a pallor,?
Humanly near, and the figure of Mary,?
Touched on by hoar-frost, shrinks in a shelter?
Made by the leaves, that have rotted and fallen;?
When over the houses, a golden illusion?
Brings back an earlier season of quiet?
And quieting dreams in the sleepers in darkness —?

The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.