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 folks 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 folks 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 folks 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 folks 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.