Fig. 82.—"Bright with the beauty of the silver moon."
Our poets may chant the praises of our modest, simple nights, of our calm, hushed heavens, bright only with the beauty of the silver moon, which pours its pale lustre with a winning charm on town and tree, on wood and lake. They may sing, as Barry Cornwall sings—
"Now to thy silent presence, night!
Is this my first song offer'd: oh! to thee
That lookest with thy thousand eyes of light—
To thee and thy starry nobility
That float with a delicious murmuring—
Though unheard here—about thy forehead blue;