Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | October 18, 2009


by Violet Jacob (1863 – 1946).

A Young Moon (1905)

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.


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