I VOL. XI, NO. 1. SEPTEMBER, 1899.
I bear the scales, where hang in equipoise
The night and day; and when unto my lips
I put my trumpet, writh its stress and noise,
Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships;
The tree tops lash the air with sounding whips,
Southward the clamorous sea fowl wing their flight;
The hedges are all red with haws and hips;
The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night.