THE MOONMEN
I stood in the forest on Huron Hill
When the night was old and the world was still.
The Wind was a wizard who muttering strode
In a raven cloak on a haunted road.
The Sound of Water, a witch who crooned
Her spells to the rocks the rain had runed.
And the Gleam of the Dew on the fern’s green tip
Was a sylvan passing with robe a-drip.
The Light of the Stars was a glimmering maid
Who stole, an elfin, from glade to glade.
The Scent of the Woods in the delicate air,
A wild-flower shape with chilly hair.
And Silence, a spirit who sat alone
With lifted finger and eyes of stone.
And it seemed to me these six were met
To greet a greater who came not yet.
And the speech they spoke, that I listened to,
Was the archetype of the speech I knew.