 | Woman, A Poem |  |
112
SONNET, TO THE MOON.
Now while the birds within their feathers hideThe nestled head, thy visit, Moon, renew;
Let thy pale spirit thro' the foliage glide,
And flowering thorns illuminate with dew.
To thee the Nightingale her pipe shall play,
And thus my pen shall moralize her lay.
113
One solitary bird the Moon below.
Thus for the Great what choral Pæans ring!
Thus for the Meek what scanty praises flow!
| Woman, A Poem | |