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MOONSHINE.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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MOONSHINE.

My little pet sat in the moonshine,
A square of light on the floor,
Shaped by the open window;
And its halo dim he wore.
It turned his hair to spun silver,
His robe into folds of pearl;
Yet it was but a linen nightgown,
A tangle of flaxen curl.
He was there at play, white nestling!
A moment before he slept;
And he patted and kissed the moonbeams,
And, cooing, across them crept.
“Bring us the moonshine, baby!”
Quick sprang the little feet;
Scooping it up by lapfuls,
Hurried the fingers sweet,
To load us with unseen treasure.
He saw it, bright and plain;
Never doubted the baby
Ours was a real gain.
Firmly we also believed it;
For, after he was asleep,

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We had his moonlit picture
Always our own to keep.
It has not grown old, or faded;
It will not, it never can.
We shall have it still to look at,
When he is a bearded man.
If then he should win great riches,
He cannot bestow a gift
So rare as the one he brought us
Out of the moonbeams' drift.
May he never lose faith in moonshine!
The ore that glimmers and streams
From the mountain-clefts of beauty,
In the far-off world of dreams!
Right royally may he scatter
The wealth of unfathomed skies,
The fine gold and sheeny silver
From the mines of Paradise!