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;