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Sara Teasdale

Dusk in Autumn

The moon is like a scimitar,

A little silver scimitar,

A-drifting down the sky.

And near beside it is a star,

A timid twinkling golden star,

That watches like an eye.

And through the nursery window-pane

The witches have a fire again,

Just like the ones we make—

And now I know they're having tea,

I wish they'd give a cup to me,

With witches' currant cake.