How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures; nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark blue depths.... Robert Southey
The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her
fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all
the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And
takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
"Queen of the silver bow! by thy pale beam, Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way; And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast: And oft I think-fair planet of the night-- That in thy orb the wretched may have rest; The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go-- Released by death-to thy benignant sphere; And the sad children of despair and woe Forget in thee their cup of sorrow here. Oh that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!"