This poem grew out of seeing the sliver of a new moon, suspended in the night sky shortly after sunset. Net time you see such a moon, try reciting this poem out loud to it. 

Hail to thee, silver crescent in the sky.

Tell me what you think you are.

Are you the universal sickle --

whetstoned symbol of seasonal harvest,

a harbinger of hope 

that reaps the plainest grains,

to feed the famined millions?

Or are you the scimitar of Saladin, 

white-hot steel tempered in the algebra of zero....