At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

See his little lanthorn-spark.

Hear his ghostly tune,

Glimmering past you, in the dark,

Old blind Moone!

All the little crazy brooks, where love and sorrow run

Crowned with sedge and singing wild,

Like a sky-lark—or a child!—

Old blind Moone, he knew their springs, and played ’em every one;

Stood there, in the darkness, blind,

And sang them into Shakespeare’s mind....

27

27

Old blind Moone of London, O now his songs are done,

The light upon his lost white face, they say it was the sun!

The light upon his poor old face, they say it was the sun!

28

28

OLD GREY SQUIRREL

 Prev. P 26/151 next