O Mr. Moon,
We’re thirty score;
Yellowbeard, Piper,
Lieabed, Toots,
Meadowbee, Moonboy,
Bully-in-boots;
Three times more
Than thirty score. 
Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin’ down?

O Mr. Moon,
Keep your eye peeled;
Watch out to windward,
Or you’ll miss the fun,
Down by the acre
Where the wheat-waves run;
Keep your eye peeled
For the open field. 
Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin’ down?

O Mr. Moon,
There’s not much time! 
Hurry, if you’re comin’,
You lazy old bones! 
You can sleep to-morrow
While the Buzbuz drones;
There’s not much time
Till the church bells chime. 
Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin’ down?

O Mr. Moon,
Just see the clover! 
Soon we’ll be going
Where the Gray Goose went
When all her money
Was spent, spent, spent! 
Down through the clover,
When the revel’s over! 
Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin’ down?

O Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin’ down? 
Down where the Good Folk
Dance in a ring,
Down where the Little Folk
Sing? 
Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin’ down?

HEM AND HAW.

Hem and Haw were the sons of sin,
Created to shally and shirk;
Hem lay ’round and Haw looked on
While God did all the work.

Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,
For both had the dull, dull mind;
And whenever they found a thing to do,
They yammered and went it blind.

Hem was the father of bigots and bores;
As the sands of the sea were they. 
And Haw was the father of all the tribe
Who criticise to-day.

But God was an artist from the first,
And knew what he was about;
While over his shoulder sneered these two,
And advised him to rub it out.

They prophesied ruin ere man was made: 
“Such folly must surely fail!”
And when he was done, “Do you think, my Lord,
He’s better without a tail?”

And still in the honest working world,
With posture and hint and smirk,
These sons of the devil are standing by
While Man does all the work.

They balk endeavor and baffle reform,
In the sacred name of law;
And over the quavering voice of Hem
Is the droning voice of Haw.

ACCIDENT IN ART.

That painter has not with a careless smutch
Accomplished his despair?—­one touch revealing
All he had put of life, thought, vigor, feeling,
Into the canvas that without that touch
Showed of his love and labor just so much
Raw pigment, scarce a scrap of soul concealing! 
What poet has not found his spirit kneeling
A sudden at the sound of such or such
Strange verses staring from his manuscript,
Written he knows not how, but which will sound
Like trumpets down the years?  So Accident
Itself unmasks the likeness of Intent,
And ever in blind Chance’s darkest crypt
The shrine-lamp of God’s purposing is found.