THE TRYST.

The harvest moon in yellow haze

Is steeping all the sea and land,

Is kindling paths and shining ways

Around the hills, across the sand.

And there are only thou and I —

O sweetheart, I've no eyes to note

The glory of the sea and sky,

I see a softly rounded throat,

A face uplifted, pure and sweet,

Two blue eyes filled with trust and love;

Enough, the sea sings at our feet,

The harvest moon sails just above.