 | Gen. Albert Pike's poems |  |
A FRAGMENT.
Like the young moon,When, on the sunlit limits of the night,
Her white sheen trembles amid crimson air,
And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might,
Doth as the herald of her coming, bear
The ghost of her dead mother, whose dim form
Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair.
| Gen. Albert Pike's poems | |