THE NEW MOON

When, as the garish day is done,

Heaven burns with the descended sun,

’Tis passing sweet to mark

Amid that flush of crimson light,

The new moon’s modest bow grow bright,

As earth and sky grow dark.

Few are the hearts too cold to feel

A thrill of gladness o’er them steal,

When first the wandering eye

Sees faintly, in the evening blaze

That glimmering curve of tender rays

Just planted in the sky.

The sight of that young crescent brings

Thoughts of all fair and youthful things-

The hopes of early years;

And childhood’s purity and grace,

And joys that like a rainbow chase

The passing shower of tears.

The captive yields him to the dream

Of freedom, when that virgin beam

Comes out upon the air;

And painfully the sick man tries

To fix his dim and burning eyes

On the sweet promise there.

Most welcome to the lover’s sight

Glitters that pure, emerging light;

For prattling poets say,

That sweetest is the lovers’ walk,

And tenderest is their murmured talk,

Beneath its gentle ray.

And there do graver men behold

A type of errors, loved of old,

Forsaken and forgiven;

And thoughts and wishes not of earth

Just opening in their early birth,

Like that new light in heaven.