Singer. He was slender, he was strange;
And the high moon—it burned for none but him.
“Where’s Glendy, Gus?”
“Took sick.”
The loud guitar,
Hesitating, rallied and persevered;
But modified its note to a new sweetness,
A low, a far-off sweetness, as Gus looked,
Listened, and looked again at the mysterious
Caller on whose mouth the full moon smiled.