Slowly the moon through solemn banks of cloud Moves as a pure-bread maiden, chaste and free, Upon the hills she drapes a milk-white shroud Luminous and couched in mystery.
There is something in the air tonight, A mood, a dream or hushed expectancy Yet more perhaps, a harbinger of light One who shall reweave earth's tapestry.
The waiting leaf anticipates her touch, The trembling shrubs wait for her to pass. The flowers lean to her as if to clutch A sweeter joy; the ever-patient grass
Cherishes every impress of her feet And the winged ones honour her in song. The ripening fruit offers her its sweet Refreshing nectar and the swift and strong
Gentle kinebow down as she walks by And holy presences her triumph cry.
Poems Undated (1727)
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