A pretty Thing.

Who am I that shine so bright,

With my pretty yellow light;

Peeping through your curtains grey?

Tell me, little girl, I pray.

When the sun is gone, I rise

In the very silent skies;

And a cloud or two doth skim

Round about my silver rim.

All the little stars do seem

Hidden by my brighter beam;

And among them I do ride,

Like a queen in all her pride.

Then the reaper goes along,

Singing forth a merry song,

While I light the shaking leaves,

And the yellow harvest sheaves.

Little girl, consider well,

Who this simple tale doth tell;

And I think you’ll guess it soon,

For I only am the moon.

a.t.