Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak, all silver under your rain to-night.
An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month; to-night they are throwing you kisses.
An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a cherry tree in his back yard.
The clocks say I must go—I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking white thoughts you rain down.
Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.
Carl Sandburg | b.1878 d.1967
Collection: Chicago Poems, 1916