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POEMS. 125
��XXI. THE MOON.
'"THE 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.
�� �
