So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy! 
  But long it won’t be,
  Don’t you know?  Don’t you see? 
Unless we are as good as can be!”
                        Lucy Larcom.

THE WIND AND THE MOON

Said the Wind to the Moon, “I will blow you out. 
            You stare
            In the air
        Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about;
I hate to be watched—­I’ll blow you out.”

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. 
            So deep,
            On a heap
        Of clouds, to sleep,
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon—­
Muttering low, “I’ve done for that Moon.”

He turned in his bed; she was there again! 
            On high
            In the sky
        With her one ghost eye,
The Moon shone white and alive and plain. 
Said the Wind—­“I will blow you out again.”

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. 
            “With my sledge
            And my wedge
        I have knocked off her edge! 
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim.”

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. 
            “One puff
            More’s enough
        To blow her to snuff! 
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!”

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone;
            In the air
            Nowhere
        Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;
Sure and certain the Moon was gone.

The Wind, he took to his revels once more;
            On down
            In town,
        Like a merry-mad clown,
He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar,
“What’s that?” The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage—­he danced and blew;
            But in vain
            Was the pain
        Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew—­till she filled the night,
            And shone
            On her throne
        In the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the night.

Said the Wind—­“What a marvel of power am I! 
            With my breath,
            Good faith! 
        I blew her to death—­
First blew her away right out of the sky—­
Then blew her in; what strength have I!”

But the Moon, she knew nothing about the affair,
          For high
          In the sky,
       With her one white eye,
Motionless, miles above the air,
She had never heard the great Wind blare.
                         George Macdonald.