Elf Sorrow

The Wild Things tremble through the wood tonight;
The wan moon veils her face
In a soft cloud-shimmer, in a cowl of white;
With slow and solemn pace
She spreads grey shrouds along the marsh below^___
The Wild Things startle with a cry of woe.

The Wild Things whimper in the arms of night
Lamenting for their dead;
The pale moon gathers up the shrouds of white
And darkly veils her head;
And naught is heard along the marsh below
But small, sad mourners and their wail of woe.

^__Allan Crafton

Contemporary Kansas Poetry
Helen Rhoda Hoopes
page 33
(Kansas City: Joseph D. Havens Company. 1927)