Ozora Stearns Davis

At the Trysting-Place

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Above the hills, the eastern hills,
There's a threat of the rising moon;
And the night's fair queen
With the silver sheen
Will gladden the dark land soon.

Above the hills, the white light fills
The vast, star-studded dome,
Then, into sight,
A disk of light,
She swings from her eastern home.

And through the trees, the evening breeze
Sings a welcome to greet the light.
Furious and long
Is the rasping song
Of the cricket minstrels of night.

Rise higher, O moon, above the hills!
Sigh softly, O evening breeze!
My throbbing heart with longing thrills
As I wait beneath the trees.

Crickets, chirp low! Her haste is slow!
Now, over the meadow, I see
A queen in white:
In the growing night
My love has come to me.

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