J. Van Alstyne Weaver, Jr.

THE MOON has gone to her bed tonight,

And all over the sky

She has hung out her garments of light

To dry.

I think I saw her, at the day’s break,

A morning or so ago,

Washing them, down by the end of the lake,

Bending quite low,

So tired she was, and pale.

And now each shimmering veil—

Sea-greens and sapphires

Jeweled with orange fires—

Floats from the star she has pinned it to….