Blue moonlight on the hawthorn leaves,
Has the wind a song for the soul that grieves?

What are the weird wild tales it tells
Of broken hearts and wizard spells?

Where is the song in the thunders’ roll
To soothe my spirit and enchant my soul?

I plead for a tale in the soft moonlight
But the wind dances into the mists of the night
And whispers a song to the hawthorn tree
With a lightness of heart that is foreign to me.

But the wind has no song for the soul that grieves
Says the moonlight smiling on the hawthorn leaves.

Freda Davis 1957