UNDER THE HUNTER'S MOON

White from her chrysalis of cloud,

The moth-like moon swings upward through the night;

And all the bee-like stars that crowd

The hollow hive of heav'n wane in her light.

Along the distance, folds of mist

Hang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray;

Tinting the trees with amethyst,

Touching with pearl and purple every spray.

All night the stealthy frost and fog

Conspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers:

To strip of wealth the woods, and clog

With piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers.

I seem to see their Spirits stand,

Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face,

Now reaching high a chilly hand

To pluck some walnut from its spicy place:

Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold,

Splitting the wahoo's pods of rose, and thin

The bittersweet's balls o’ gold,

To show the coal-red berries packed within:

Now on dim threads of gossamer

Stringing pale pearls of moisture; necklacing

The flow'rs; and spreading cobweb fur,

Crystaled with stardew, over everything:

While‘ neath the moon, with moon-white feet,

They go and, chill, a moon-soft music draw

From wan leaf-cricket flutes — the sweet,

Sad dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw.