By Ada A. Mosher
In breathless awe of this strange midnight-noon
The mute woods stand and stare bewildered o’er:
Heaped at their feet lie glittering Louis d’or;
Piled high the golden scudo and doubloon,
The hoarded earnings of their youth of June,
Are these surprised of bandit-meteor?
How pale the face yon spectral Sycamore
Lifts, tremulously, to the midnight moon!