The moon resembles more 
    A sickle than a scythe,
It's swung the world o'er
    To reap the stars of sky...
   
But its harvest comes to nought,
    In gathering bits of light;
None by blade are caught
    In its swath across the night...

Somehow, in the sky so wide,
     None are cut, not e'en a twinkle,
But there they stay, to abide,
     And there, with scattered light
                                     they sprinkle...
                    
                                         ―John Riedell

Return to Home Page