The Moon The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known. He lips of amber never part; But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will! And what a priviledge to be But the remotest star…