And some the religious light that is shed
Adown in a church’s aisle—
And some will turn out from a nice, warm bed
To gaze on a burning pile.
But the light that we love far better than all
Is the light of the golden moon
At the sweet, short hour “ayont the twal,”
Just past the summer night’s noon.
Oh! then ’tis sweet to roam alone,
Or to sit in the shaded bower!