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Phases of the Moon


Once upon a time I heard

That the flying moon was a Phoenix bird;

Thus she sails through windy skies,

Thus in the willow's arms she lies;

Turn to the East or turn to the West

In many trees she makes her nest.

When she's but a pearly thread

Look among birch leaves overhead;

When she dies in yellow smoke

Look in a thunder-smitten oak;

But in May when the moon is full,

Bright as water and white as wool,

Look for her where she loves to be,

Asleep in a high magnolia tree.


Elinor Wylie




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