The Waning Moon

By Celia Thaxter

The moon is tired and old;
In the morning darkness cold
She drifts up the paling sky,
With cheek flushed wearily.

A little longer, and lo!
She is lost in the sun's bright glow;
A thin shell, pearly and pale,
'Mid soft white clouds that sail.

Art faint and sad, dear moon?
Gladness shall find thee soon!
Sorry art thou to wane?
Thou shalt be young again!

And beautiful as before
Thou shalt live in the sky once more;
From the baby crescent small
Thou shalt grow to the golden ball:

And again will the children shout,
Oh look at the moon, look out!
For thou shalt be great and bright
As when God first made night.