before the moon

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    before the moon

    the moon rove the sky
    its garment hung gallantly
    like hungry wings ready to fly
    say the moon rock the sky
    like ancient wings in no mood to fly

    the moon deck the sky
    its iniquities the dawn must purge
    its putrid the sun must scourch
    say the moon's king of the dusk
    its throne we carry like the tusk

    say before the moon,
    the sun must fret,
    squrry deep into safety
    like a roddent before its prey
    say the sun's a fret

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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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