NIGHT-SCENTED STOCK
"Is the moon a virgin or is she a harlot?"
Asked somebody. Nobody would tell.
The faces and the hands moved in a pattern
As the music rose and fell,
In a dancing, mysterious, moon-bright pattern
Like flowers nodding under the sea . . .
Asked somebody. Nobody would tell.
The faces and the hands moved in a pattern
As the music rose and fell,
In a dancing, mysterious, moon-bright pattern
Like flowers nodding under the sea . . .
The music stopped and there was nothing left of them
But the moon dancing over the tree. 1917.
But the moon dancing over the tree. 1917.
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