Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu/139

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POEMS. 125

��XXI. THE MOON.

'"PHE moon was but a chin of gold

  • A night or two ago,

And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond ;

Her cheek like beryl stone ; Her eye unto the summer dew

The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part ;

But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow

Were such her silver will !

And what a privilege to be

But the remotest star ! For certainly her way might pass

Beside your twinkling door.

�� �