Tomorrow, if it’s clear, you should be able to see the thin crescent of the moon, slender and barely open.
O holy crescent, welcome to the sky:
thy virgin slenderness is our delight,
in winter darkness a comforting light.
Come out, sweet maid, and do not be so shy —
the minutes to thy setting swiftly fly,
and in the East the early stars shine bright
on the leaf-bare maple, and winter white
that covers the ground and makes the land die.
Yet in this chill dusk, speak to us of spring,
of the rising sap and the turning stars,
of new-born foxes dreaming in their dens.
Speak in whispers of robins on the wing,
of the arborist sharpening his shears,
of hares in warrens, and new-nesting wrens.