HENRY CLARENCE KENDALL
Yea, for him by Mooni's marge Sings the yellow-hair'd September, With the face the gods remember, When the ridge is burnt to ember,
And the dumb sea chains the barge' Where the mount like molten brass is, Down beneath fern-feather'd passes Noonday dew in cool green grasses
Gleams on him by Mooni's marge.
��Who that dwells by Mooni yet, Feels in flowei f ul forest arches Smiting wings and breath that parches Where strong Summer's path of march is,
And the sunb in thunder set' Housed beneath the grpcious kirtle
Of the shadowy water-myrtle
Winds may kibs with heat and hurtle,
He is safe by Mooni yet'
��Days there were when he who sings (Dumb so long through passion's losses) Stood where Mooni's water crosses Shining tracks of grecn-hair'd mosses,
Like a soul with radiant wings:
Then the psalm the wind rehearses
Then the song the stream disperses
Lent a beauty to his verses,
Who to-night of Mooni sings.
�� �
