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 blond;	 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 smileUpon 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 Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
moon, poem