Under the Hunter's Moon by Madison Cawein — Read

White from her chrysalis of cloud, / The moth-like moon swings upward through the night; / And all the bee-like stars that crowd / The hollow hive of heav'n wane in her light.

Along the distance, folds of mist / Hang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray; / Tinting the trees with amethyst, / Touching with pearl and purple every spray.

All night the stealthy frost and fog / Conspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers: / To strip of wealth the woods, and clog / With piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers.

I seem to see their Spirits stand, / Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face, / Now reaching high a chilly hand / To pluck some walnut from its spicy place:

Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold, / Splitting the wahoo's pods of rose, and thin / The bittersweet's balls o' gold, / To show the coal-red berries packed within:

Now on dim threads of gossamer / Stringing pale pearls of moisture; necklacing / The flow'rs; and spreading cobweb fur, / Crystaled with stardew, over everything:

While 'neath the moon, with moon-white feet, / They go and, chill, a moon-soft music draw / From wan leaf-cricket flutes -- the sweet, / Sad dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw.