And deem the deep opaque will blot her beams;
But melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs
In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes
The orb with richer beauties than her own;
Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene.
Southey—Madoc.
59. Thine own loved moon's,
That every soft and solemn spirit worships;
That lovers love so well; strange joy is hers,
Whose influence o'er all tides of soul hath power.