Above the darkening hills the last glow

Of the day grew faint. A gaunt lonely pine

Stood sharp against the sky. Serene and slow

There moved across the lake a cloudy line

Of birds. In the cool dusk the fireflies flew;

Somewhere a cricket chirped a busy tune;

The valley wind died down, and in the blue

There hung the thin first crescent of the moon.

One boy waiting on the hill felt the air

Cool on his cheek, remembering mornings young

Before the sun had burned to haggard noon,

While he lay breathless, wide-eyed, still - and there

Like the shining edge of a great disk flung

In a wild gesture, rode the silver moon.