To Carl Sandburg

I think I am cousin-german to Endymion,Certainly I have loved the moon a long time.

I have seen her, a faint conceit of silver,Shooting little silver arrows into a marsh pool at twilight.I have seen her, high, round, majestic,Making herself a jewel of fire out of a sea bay.I have seen the morning moon, grievously battered,Limping down a coloured sky.To-night I saw an evening moonDodging between tree-branchesThrough a singing silence of crickets,And a man was singing songs to a black-backed guitar.

To-day I saw a country I knew well but had never seen.A country where corn runs a mile or more to a tree-line,A country where a river, brown as bronze, streaked green with the flowing heads of water-plants,Slips between a field of apples and a field of wheat.A country where the eye seeks a long wayAnd comes back on the curve of a round sky,Satisfied with greens and blues, tired with the stretch and exhilarated by it.

The moon stops a moment in a hole between leavesAnd tells me a new story,The story of a man who lives in a house with a pear-tree before the door,A story of little green pears changing and ripening,Of long catalpa pods turning yellow through September days.There is a woman in the house, and children,And, out beyond, the corn-fields are sleeping and the trees are whispering to the fire-flies.So I have seen the man's country, and heard his songs before there are words to them.And the moon said to me: "This now I give you," and went on, stepping through the leaves.And the man went on singing, picking out his accompaniment softly on the black-backed guitar.