The Token: An Extract

The Token: An Extract

The new-born Moon lies low on breast
Of western sky, a silver streak
Scarce seen by me, a gentle freak
Of nature's fancy, mild-light crest

Of night's soft glory, whispering peace
To grief hit watcher's weary soul,
And giving promise rich and whole
In truth of newer life a lease.

And each suceeding night doth see
Her wider, brighter grow and fill
The air with silvery smilings still,
And hopeful of the smiles to be.

There comes no joy but finds its mate
In grief. As then I dreamed with night
And bathed my sweeter hope in light
Of joy, there fell the shades of Fate.

No light of Moon, no fleeting thought
But what was saddened weight of pain,
Or light by deepest shadow slain
Where joy may never more be sought.

And thus I dream of thee by day,
By night, dear friend, and gather rest
In sadder strain or joy the best,
I care not which if love but stay.

W.H.A. Moore

5:1, p. 2

1891.09.26