Hilda Conkling

((1910–1986) / New York)

Moon Song - Poem by Hilda Conkling

THERE is a star that runs very fast,
That goes pulling the moon
Through the tops of the poplars.
It is all in silver,
The tall star:
The moon rolls goldenly along
Out of breath.
Mr. Moon, does he make you hurry?


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Poem Submitted: Saturday, January 30, 2016



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