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.

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.