I must be feeling a bit misanthropic, therefore, I need a little poetry.
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven - by William Butler Yeats
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
And because it will be a full moon tonight...
To the Moon- by Rainer Maria Rilke
Moon, svelte person,
who makes you pregnant
And who makes you always
engrossed in your pregnancy
You attract the blood
of our pubescent virgins.
But what do you mother
twelve times a year?
Shall we raise your light
offspring in ourselves?
Inside me I found a soft
candle decorated with gilt
which I think suits your taste.