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The Morning Moon Post by :Sherry2000 Category :Poems Author :Helen Hunt Jackson Date :September 2011 Read :3670

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The Morning Moon

The gold moon turns to white;
The white moon fades to cloud;
It looks so like the gold moon's shroud,
It makes me think about the dead,
And hear the words I have heard read,
By graves for burial rite.

I wonder now how many moons
In just such white have died;
I wonder how the stars divide
Among themselves their share of light;
And if there were great years of night
Before the earth saw noons.

I wonder why each moon, each sun,
Which ever has been or shall be,
In this day's sun and moon I see;
I think perhaps all of the old
Is hidden in each new day's hold;
So the first day is not yet done!

And then I think--our dust is spent
Before the balances are swung;
Shall we be loneliest among
God's living creatures? Shall we dare
To speak in this eternal air
The only discontent?

(The end)
Helen Hunt Jackson's poem: Morning Moon

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Draxy's Hymn Draxy's Hymn

Draxy's Hymn
I cannot think but God must know About the thing I long for so; I know He is so good, so kind, I cannot think but He will find Some way to help, some way to show Me to the thing I long for so. I stretch my hand--it lies so near: It looks so sweet, it looks so dear. "Dear Lord," I pray, "Oh, let me know If it is wrong to want it so?" He only smiles--He does not speak: My heart grows weaker and more weak,

My Little Tiarella My Little Tiarella

My Little Tiarella
My little Tiarella, If thou art my own, Tell me how thus in winter Thy shining flowers have blown. Art thou a fairy smuggler, Defying law? Didst take of last year's summer More than summer saw? Or hast thou stolen frost-flakes Secretly at night? Thy stamens tipped with silver, Thy petals spotless white, Are so like those which cover My window-pane; Wilt thou, like them, turn back at noon To drops again? Oh, little Tiarella, Thy silence speaks; No more my foolish question