THE MOON-CRADLE
By Kate Wisner M’Cluskey
The little, the yellow moon-cradle
Is swaying, is swinging slow;
And the tiny white star-tapers burning
Have flickered their lights down low;
The night has the cloud-curtains ready,
She is holding them draped on her breast,
For the dear little, queer little babe in the moon
Will have sunk to rest in the west.