Night throws her silver tresses back,
And o’er the mountain-tops afar
She leaves a soft and moonlight track,
More glorious than the day-beams are;
And while she steers her moonlight barque
Along that starry river now,
Each leaf, each flower, each bending bough,
Starts into beauty from the dark;
Each path appears a silver line,
And naught in earth—but all divine.