Fear, pleasure and childhood poetry

The Golden Book of Poetry edited by Jane Werner and published originally in 1947 was a source of endless pleasure when I was a child. I know my siblings enjoyed it too, but somehow, out of the five kids in our family, I snagged the only copy.

The poems are wonderful, but the illustrations by Gertrude Elliott were the main draw for me.  Fanciful with creatures that never existed in real life, the pictures were incredibly detailed-- a child could find all the elements of a full page poem in the accompanying illustration.

This type of illustration had its downside -- the drawing that accompanied James Whitcomb Riley's Little Orphant Annie was so frightening to a shy child like me that I didn't dare even read the poem.  The picture still conjures up ghost stories around the campfire, my back prickling with fear at what might be out there in the dark.

My favorite poem, out of many wonderful selections, is Moon Song by Mildred Plew Meigs. I never heard of Ms. Meigs again, but that doesn't keep her poem from stirring my soul.

Moon Song

  by Mildred Plew Meigs

Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon–

  Over the crinkling sea,

The moon man flings him a silvered net

  Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folk say when the net lies long

  And the midnight hour is ripe;

The moon man fishes for some old song

  That fell from a sailor's pipe.

And some folk say that he fishes the bars

  Down where the dead ships lie,

Looking for lost little baby stars

  That slid from the slippery sky.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in

  And the nodding night wind blows,

But why the moon man fishes the sea

  Only the moon man knows.

Zoon, zoon, net of the moon

  Rides on the wrinkling sea;

Bright is the fret and shining wet,

  Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folk say when the great net gleams

  And the waves are dusky blue,

The moon man fishes for two little dreams

  He lost when the world was new.

And some folk say in the late night hours,

  While the long fin-shadows slide,

The moon man fishes for cold sea flowers

  Under the tumbling tide.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in

  And the gray gulls dip and doze,

But why the moon man fishes the sea

  Only the moon man knows.

Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon--

  Over the crinkling sea,

The moon man flings him a silvered net

  Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folk say that he follows the flecks

  Down where the last light flows,

Fishing for two round gold-rimmed "specs"

  That blew from his button-like nose.

And some folk say while the salt sea foams

  And the silver net lines snare,

The moon man fishes for carven combs

  That float from the mermaids' hair.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in

  And the nodding night wind blows,

But why the moon man fishes the sea

  Only the moon man knows.