Classic Poem

O sometimes when I wake at night
I think the moon so round and bright
That it must fall for very light.

That lovely, lovely liquid fall
Would make the stars cry out and call,
But would not burn my hands at all.

Now even raindrops off the tip
Of leaves and twigs, soft, softly drip;
But if the moon should suddenly slip,

You would not hear the softest sup
And nobody could scrape it up;
It could not stay in any cup.

The moon would fall without a sound
Without a stain upon the ground,
And in the morning not be found.