Page:General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems.djvu/118

102 The Moon's a snowball, melted down A dozen times a year.

Yet rolled again in hot July When all my days are done And cool to greet the weary eye After the scorching sun.

The moon's a piece of winter fair Renewed the year around, Behold it, deathless and unstained, Above the grimy ground!

It rolls on high so brave and white Where the clear air-rivers flow, Proclaiming Christmas all the time And the glory of the snow!


 * What the Scare-crow Said

The dim-winged spirits of the night Do fear and serve me well. They creep from out the hedges of The garden where I dwell.

I wave my arms across the walk. The troops obey the sign,