An excerpt from “The Death of the Hired Man” by Robert Frost, from his collection North of Boston (1915).
Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played unheard the tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night.
“Warren,” she said, “he has come home to die:
You needn’t be afraid he’ll leave you this time.”
Julie Buffaloe Yoder has a beautiful, unique image of the moon in her poem “Illusions.” Visit her blog, The Buffaloe Pen, to read it.