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The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below

Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde
Her Cheek—a Beryl hewn
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known

Her Lips of Amber never part
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door

Her Bonnet is the Firmament
The Universe—Her Shoe
The Stars—the Trinkets at Her Belt
Her Dimities—of Blue