The moon woke me, the pocked and chalky moon
that floods the garden with its silvery blue
and cuts the shadow of one leafy branch across
this bed of ours as if on to bright snow.
The sky is empty. Street lights and stars
are all extinguished. Still the moon flows in,
drowning old landmarks in a magic lake,
the chilly waters lapping at my pillow,
their spell relentless as this cold
unhappiness in which I lie awake.
from Collected Poems and Translations (Carcanet Press, 2002), copyright © Elaine Feinstein 2002, used by permission of the author and the publisher.