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.