THE MOON was but a chin of goldA night or two ago,And now she turns her perfect faceUpon the world below.Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone;Her eye unto the summer dewThe likest I have known.Her lips of amber never part;But what must be the smileUpon her friend she could bestowWere such her silver will!And what a privilege to beBut the remotest star!For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door.Her bonnet is the firmament,The universe her shoe,The stars the trinkets at her belt,Her dimities of blue.
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