A HUNTER'S MOON 



iRULY there is magic in it. So 

 high, so white, it hangs, the 

 flooding silver of it washing 

 out to dun pallor all the lin- 

 gering scarlet and yellow, and 

 purple and flame, of this late autumn world. 

 The charmed wind lies in leash. Nor breath, 

 nor ripple, stirs in the low leaf or the' high. 

 From the runnels mists creep slow and 

 slower, to lie in long, straight wefts above 

 the chilling earth. Now turf and weeds are 

 damp, glistering with fine beads that in 

 sunrise shall show as frost. Through the 

 hush a lone, late cricket chirps desolately 

 faint. Far and faint from the wood's deep 

 heart the owls send out their shouting 

 " whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo-hoo-oo !" 



For all that, 'tis no moon for sighing 

 this jocund orb, swimming up the east. It 

 showed crescent, ran to quarter in the 

 nights of gay October. Now, at full, it 

 lights the sere fields, the thinning woods 



