Songs to the Moon, Part 1: "Fairy-Tales for the Children"

Girl with the burning golden eyes,
And red-bird song, and snowy throat:
I bring you gold and silver moons
And diamond stars, and mists that float.
I bring you moons and snowy clouds,
I bring you prairie skies to-night
To feebly praise your golden eyes
And red-bird song, and throat so white.

Old Euclid drew a circle
On a sand-beach long ago.
He bounded and enclosed it
With angles thus and so.
His set of solemn greybeards
Nodded and argued much
Of arc and of circumference,
Diameter and such.
A silent child stood by them
From morning until noon
Because they drew such charming
Round pictures of the moon.

  (What Uncle William told the Children)

Twelve snails went walking after night.
They'd creep an inch or so,
Then stop and bug their eyes
And blow.
Some folks . . . are . . . deadly . . . slow.
Twelve snails went walking yestereve,
Led by their fat old king.
They were so dull their princeling had
No sceptre, robe or ring --
Only a paper cap to wear
When nightly journeying.

This king-snail said:  "I feel a thought
Within. . . .  It blossoms soon. . . .
O little courtiers of mine, . . .
I crave a pretty boon. . . .
Oh, yes . . . (High thoughts with effort come
And well-bred snails are ALMOST dumb.)
"I wish I had a yellow crown
As glistering . . . as . . . the moon."

The moon's a little prairie-dog.
He shivers through the night.
He sits upon his hill and cries
For fear that I will bite.

The sun's a broncho. He's afraid
Like every other thing,
And trembles, morning, noon and night,
Lest I should spring, and sting.

   When does the moon look like a cooky with a big bite out of it?
   I wonder who eats the moon-scraps.

   What the Little Girl said

The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day, 
Until there's but a rim of scraps 
That crumble all away.

The South Wind is a baker. 
He kneads clouds in his den, 
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy 
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!

The dim-winged spirits of the night
Do fear and serve me well.
They creep from out the hedges of
The garden where I dwell.

I wave my arms across the walk.
The troops obey the sign,
And bring me shimmering shadow-robes
And cups of cowslip-wine.

Then dig a treasure called the moon,
A very precious thing,
And keep it in the air for me
Because I am a King.

The moon's a gong, hung in the wild,
Whose song the fays hold dear.
Of course you do not hear it, child.
It takes a FAIRY ear.

The full moon is a splendid gong
That beats as night grows still.
It sounds above the evening song
Of dove or whippoorwill.

  (What Grandpa told the Children)

The moon? It is a griffin's egg,
    Hatching to-morrow night. 
And how the little boys will watch 
With shouting and delight 
To see him break the shell and stretch 
And creep across the sky. 
The boys will laugh. The little girls, 
I fear, may hide and cry. 
Yet gentle will the griffin be, 
Most decorous and fat, 
And walk up to the Milky Way 
And lap it like a cat.