A YOUNG MOON

A crescent hung above the trees, A sweep of fading sky; A parting shiver in the breeze, And day lies down to die. A silver curve above the murk Where weary cities slave And heart and hand are seamed with work Whose goal is but the grave. Within the young moon’s slender arm The old moon’s shadow lies, That wraith whose evanescent charm Melts back to Paradise. O’er one, o’er all, the wonder swings; A gleam sad eyes may see; A lamp that flies on hidden wings To light my love and me; A vigil-taper, lone, apart, High above field and town O’er many a spot where some poor heart Has laid its burden down.