Vanished Hours
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”.