𝑇he moon was but a chin of gold a night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
𝑈pon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond ;
Her cheek like beryl stone ;
Her eye unto the summer dew. The likest I have known. Her lips of amber never part ; but what must be the smile.
Upon her friend she could bestow. Were such her silver will !

𝐴nd what a privilege to be.
But the remotest star !
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.

The Moon.