Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon--
   Over the crinkling sea,
The moon man flings him a silvered net
   Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folk say when the net lies long
   And the midnight hour is ripe;
The moon man fishes for some old song
   That fell from a sailor's pipe.

And some folk say that he fishes the bars
   Down where the dead ships lie,
Looking for lost little baby stars
   That slid from the slippery sky.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in
   And the nodding night wind blows,
But why the moon man fishes the sea
   Only the moon man knows.

Zoon, zoon, net of the moon
   Rides on the wrinkling sea;
Bright is the fret and shining wet,
   Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folk say when the great net gleams
   And the waves are dusky blue,
The moon man fishes for two little dreams
   He lost when the world was new.

And some folk say in the late night hours,
   While the long fin-shadows slide,
The moon man fishes for cold sea flowers
   Under the tumbling tide.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in
   And the gray gulls dip and doze,
But why the moon man fishes the sea
   Only the moon man knows.

Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon--
   Over the crinkling sea,
The moon man flings him a silvered net
   Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folk say that he follows the flecks
   Down where the last light flows,
Fishing for two round gold-rimmed "specs"
   That blew from his button-like nose.

And some folk say while the salt sea foams
   And the silver net lines snare,
The moon man fishes for carven combs
   That float from the mermaids' hair.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in
   And the nodding night wind blows,
But why the moon man fishes the sea
   Only the moon man knows.

---

Because I haven't written anything myself in a while and this is one I have liked as long as I can remember.  From The Golden Book of Poetry published in 1949, given to my mother when she was a little girl, and which she has passed on to me.

Cold breath moves softly
like a dream barely realized--
distant wings hammer.

Funereal leaves
falling, rustle restlessly:
laughter old and dry

Icy limbs clatter,
trembling timber intertwines,
moaning gale laments.

Moonlight ensorcells
writhing bleak and twisted clouds,
dark turbid shadows.

Gaunt ravenous sky--
high lonesome wrawl of winter:
hungry like the wind.