The moon is at her crystal window
Spinning and weaving . . .
The moon looks out of her window of crystal.
She has no lights excepting stars
That hang on threads unknown
From her sky-ceiling, her walls.
Their twinkling is like the twittering of many birds
In the early morning.
The moon sits by her crystal window;
She sings to herself and spins . . .
Spins the pale blue silken thread
That holds earth danghng
Over deep light. . . .
(Now this is what the moon sings:)
Spin, spinning wheel,
Day and night too!
I keep it going all the time
To weave my robe of dew.
I make it from the fields of blue
And the robin's breast;
The sun gives me rays
From the yellow west.
It shall be touched with evening
And with mellowy dew,
And send a separate shining
Down the sky to you,
My woven gown of sun-rays,
My silken gown of blue.