An idea in the moon’s cool light,
This night, frolics in a winsome frock
Nymphal freshness clad in vestal white.
At this hour, a small one, says the clock
To bed and to glorious, delirious dreams
Accolades, trophies, cheers and what not.
In the morning, the punctual sun beams
Warmly down upon the scribbled thought
Of the night before, and it is like snow
Like early mist, like an ice cream sundae.
The brilliance, the effulgent glow
The sheer genius of it, all melted away.