If I offer you the moon on a string, will you give me a kiss, too?
Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.
I didn’t go to the moon, I went much further – for time is the longest distance between two places.
I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed.
In that moonlit hours, I acquired a sense of the otherness of things. I liked the feeling the moonlight gave me, as if it wasn’t the opposite of day, but its underside, its private side, when the fabulous purred on my snow-white sheet like some dark cat come in from the desert.
There's no point in saving the world if it means losing the moon.
When I first discovered the moon, he said, I gave it a different name. But everyone kept calling it the moon. The real name never caught on.
One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.
Our goddess of the moon is gifted with magic, with power over the dead. She could banish the dreams, if she wished. She did not.
And he beholds the moon; like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.
Gran always likes the full moon to shine on this side of the house. She says it’s restful, and it reminds her of when she was a girl... And it means you don’t trip on the stairs.
There was just one moon. That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose – a gleaming, round saucer – over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul – or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. THAT moon.