The moon, like a flower

In heaven's high bower,

With silent delight

Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight;

Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright:
Unseen, they pour blessing
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
On each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are covered warm;

They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm.
If they see any weeping

That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey

They pitying stand and weep,
Seeking to drive their thirst away,

And keep them from the sheep.

But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit
New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold,

Saying: "Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,

Are driven away

From our immortal day.

"And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,

Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.

For, washed in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o'er the fold."

William Blake

THE WIND AND THE MOON

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out;

You stare

In the air

Like a ghost in a chair,

Aways looking what I am about

I hate to be watched; I'll blow

you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.

So, deep

On a heap

Of clouds to sleep,

Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again!

On high

In the sky,

With her one ghost eye,

The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge,

And my wedge,

I have knocked off her edge!

If only I blow right fierce and grim,

The creature will soon be dimmer than dim.”

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff More's enough

To blow her to snuff!

One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone.

In the air

Nowhere

Was a moonbeam bare;

Far off and harmless the shy stars shone-
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more;
On down,

In town,

Like a merry-mad clown,

He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage-he danced and blew;

But in vain

Was the pain

Of his bursting brain;

For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew-till she filled the night,

And shone

On her throne

In the sky alone,

A matchless, wonderful silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!
With my breath,

Good faith!

I blew her to death-

First blew her away right out of the sky-
Then blew her in; what strength have I!"

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For high

In the sky,

With her one white eye,

Motionless, miles above the air,

She had never heard the great Wind blare.

George Macdonald

THE PIPER ON THE HILL

There sits a piper on the hill

Who pipes the livelong day,

And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say:

"The wind, the wind is blowing up,

'Tis rising to a gale."

The women hurry to the shore

To watch some distant sail.

The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.

But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,

I hear the merry women go

With laughter, loud and shrill:

"The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day."

They gather on the meadow-land
To toss the yellow hay.

The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.

And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,

The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm:

"The snow, the snow has come at last!"

The happy children call,

And "ring around" they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.

The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.

But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,

Because God's windows open wide

The pretty tune to hear;

And when each crowding spirit looks,

From its star window-pane,

A watching mother may behold

Her little child again.

The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,

May blow her home again.

Dora Sigerson Shorter