Poetry of Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-coloured Glass

The Crescent Moon

Slipping softly through the sky
 Little horned, happy moon,
Can you hear me up so high?
 Will you come down soon?

On my nursery window-sill
 Will you stay your steady flight?
And then float away with me
 Through the summer night?

Brushing over tops of trees,
 Playing hide and seek with stars,
Peeping up through shiny clouds
 At Jupiter or Mars.

I shall fill my lap with roses
 Gathered in the milky way,
All to carry home to mother.
 Oh! what will she say!

Little rocking, sailing moon,
 Do you hear me shout -- Ahoy!
Just a little nearer, moon,
 To please a little boy.