air as the light on fire-tipt hills,
From out her hollow hand she spills
The pale and powdery moonbeams, sifting
O'er sleeping farms and the winking rills.
The silvered leaves smile in their sleep;
Headlands their hoary watches keep;
The glimmering ships the moonglade furrow—
The path where beauty fore-walks the deep.
And now the powdery beam is thrown
On marguerite and pearl moonstone,
On fluffy bird with wing aweary,—
Soft, dreaming child! 'tis her silver blown.
ith lathe of viewless hyaline,
She shapes the shell and scale and fin,
Dropping unseen her pearls of moonlight,
And blushes all as her kith and kin.
Distaff of light is in her hand,
From which she spins the lily, and
The sendal robes of field and forest,
With dewy odors in every strand.
And from her snow-white palette's dyes
She paints the peacock's hundred eyes,
The robin's egg, the apple blossom,