But soon she turned her eyes to the kindling sky, and forgot all else.  The moon was slowly turning from gold to silver; then it would turn from silver to white cloud, then to film, then vanish away.  Draxy knew that day and the sun would conquer.  “Oh, if I only understood it,” sighed Draxy.  Then she fell to thinking about the first chapter in Genesis; and while she looked upon that paling moon, she dreamed of other moons which no human eyes ever saw.  Draxy was a poet; but as yet she had never dared to show even to her father the little verses she had not been able to help writing.  “Oh, how dare I do this; how dare I?” she said to herself, as alone in her little room, she wrote line after line.  “But if nobody ever knows, it can do no harm.  It is strange I love it, though, when I am so ashamed.”

This morning Draxy had that mysterious feeling as if all things were new, which so often comes to poetic souls.  It is at once the beauty and the burden, the exhaustion and the redemption of their lives.  No wonder that even common men can sometimes see the transfiguration which often comes to him before whose eyes death and resurrection are always following each other, instant, perpetual, glorious.  Draxy took out her little diary.  Folded very small, and hid in the pocket of it, was a short poem that she had written the year before on a Tiarella plant which had blossomed in her window.  Mrs. White had brought it to her with some ferns and mosses from the mountains; and all winter long it had flowered as if in summer.  Draxy wondered why this golden moon reminded her of the Tiarella.  She did not know the subtle underlying bonds in nature.  These were the Tiarella verses:—­

  My little Tiarella,
  If thou art my own,
  Tell me how thus in winter
  Thy shining flowers have blown. 
  Art thou a fairy smuggler,
  Defying law? 
  Didst take of last year’s summer
  More than summer saw? 
  Or hast thou stolen frost-flakes
  Secretly at night? 
  Thy stamens tipped with silver,
  Thy petals spotless white,
  Are so like those which cover
  My window-pane;
  Wilt thou, like them, turn back at noon
  To drops again?

  Oh, little Tiarella,
  Thy silence speaks;
  No more my foolish question
  Thy secret seeks. 
  The sunshine on my window
  Lies all the day. 
  How shouldst thou know that summer
  Has passed away? 
  The frost-flake’s icy silver
  Is dew at noon for thee. 
  O winter sun!  O winter frost,
  Make summer dews for me!

After reading these over several times, Draxy took out her pencil, and very shyly screening herself from all observation, wrote on the other side of the paper these lines: 

  The Morning Moon.

    The gold moon turns to white;
  The white moon fades to cloud;
  It looks so like the gold moon’s shroud,
  It makes me think about the dead,
  And hear the words I have heard read,
    By graves for burial rite.