And as they ride along in order due,
Circling the round globe in their wandering.
To thee their ancient queen and mother sing....
Not dull and cold and dark art thou:
Who that beholds thy clearer brow,
Endiademed with gentlest streaks
Of fleecy-silver'd cloud, adorning
Thee, fair as when the young sun wakes....
But must feel thy powers."
In some such ecstatic strains as this we may laud our moonlit nights, acknowledging in our heart of hearts the power of their silent, subtle loveliness; but how shall we compare them with nights made wonderful by a blending of golden and emerald fires? by the shifting coruscations of stars of many colours?