The pines have gathered upon the hill To watch for the old-new moon; I hear their murmuring--"Hush, be still! 'Tis coming--coming soon!" The brown thrush sings to his meek brown wife Who broods below on her nest: "Of all the world and of all my life 'Tis you I love the best!" But the baby moon is wide awake, And its eyes are shining bright; The pines in their arms this moon must take And rock him to sleep to-night. |