The August moon, at its full,
Was flooding the World with light,
From a nearby forest softly came
The voices of the night.

Cicada was frying her fritters,
A mocking bird sang in the tree,
In the grass “Poor Will” was complaining,
For who so unhappy as he?

Frogs in the meadow were croaking,
Owls hooted on the hill,
And the short, snappy bark of the fox was heard,
As he sought his larder to fill.

Myriads of tiny voices,
Helped the chorus to swell,
And Archturus, the Watchman of the night,
Seemed to echo “All is well”.

It was a wonderful night,
Beauty transcending the day,
And one could almost wish
The August moon might stay.

But already a change was coming —
A coolness filled the air —
It brought to my quickened senses
A fragrance elusive and rare.

The light was growing dimmer,
The sounds more distant seemed,
Wondering over the perfume,
I slept — and then, I dreamed.

A well remembered scene,
Greeted my dreaming eyes,
Hearing familiar voices,
I turned in glad surprise.

Dear friends of old, were drawing near,
A lovely sight to see,
And some, almost forgotten,
Held out a hand to me.

We talked of this, we talked of that,
As friends long parted will,
And many eager questions,
Remain unanswered still.

We sang the songs we used to sing,
We wandered ’mid the flowers,
Oh Memory, blessed Memory,
Bringing in dreams, our vanished hours.