In Camp

By Nora May French


As down I bent with eager lips
   Above the stones and cresses cool—
The yellow tent, the little moon,
   I found within my twilight pool.

The fringing trees, the floating moon,
   The bubble tent—I passed them by,
And sipped a tiny, shattered star,
   Deep drinking from that mirrored sky.


My tent is shadowed day and night
   With leaves that shift in moon and sun;
Across its walls of lucent white
   The lovely varied tracings run;

And black and slender, quickly sped,
   I watch the little feet at dawn—
A sudden oriole overhead,
   A darting linnet come and gone.