The moon was but a chin of gold,
A night or two ago
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.
Her forehead is of amplest blonde
Her cheek like beryl stone,
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.
Her lips of amber never part
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow,
Were such her silver will.
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star.
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.
Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.
~Emily Dickinson,
"The Moon Was But a Chin of Gold"
Friday Poem 
