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Transcendental moonshine.

Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth.

The moon is a silver pin-head vast, That holds the heaven's tent-hangings fast.

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.

Doth the moon care for the barking of a dog?

The moon pull'd off her veil of light, That hides her face by day from sight That's both her lustre and her shade), And in the lantern of the night, With shining horns hung out her light.

He made an instrument to know If the moon shine at full or no; That would, as soon as e'er she shone straight, Whether 'twere day or night demonstrate; Tell what her d'ameter to an inch is, And prove that she's not made of green cheese.

The devil's in the moon for mischief; they Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon Their nomenclature; there is not a day, The longest, not the twenty-first of June, Sees half the business in a wicked way, On which three single hours of moonshine smile-- And then she looks so modest all the while!

Into the sunset's turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge; Enchantment sails through magic seas, To fairland Hesperides, Over the hills and away.

The sun had sunk and the summer skies Were dotted with specks of light That melted soon in the deep moon-rise That flowed over Groton Height.

The moving moon went up to the sky, And nowhere did abide; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside.

When the hollow drum has beat to bed And the little fifer hangs his head, When all is mute the Moorish flute, And nodding guards watch wearily, On, then let me, From prison free, March out by moonlight cheerily.

How like a queen comes forth the lonely Moon From the slow opening curtains of the clouds Walking in beauty to her midnight throne!

And hail their queen, fair regent of the night.

Lend me thy pen To write a word In the moonlight. Pierrot, my friend! My candle's out, I've no more fire;-- For love of God Open thy door!

Now Cynthia, named fair regent of the night.

On the road, the lonely road, Under the cold, white moon; Under the rugged trees he strode, Whistled and shifted his heavy load-- Whistled a foolish tune.

He who would see old Hoghton right Must view it by the pale moonlight.

As the moon's fair image quaketh In the raging waves of ocean, Whilst she, in the vault of heaven, Moves with silent peaceful motion.

Jove, thou regent of the skies.