There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery.
- When have I last looked on
- The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies
- Of the dark leopards of the moon?
- All the wild witches, those most noble ladies,
- For all their broom-sticks and their tears,
- Their angry tears, are gone.
- W. B. YEATS, Lines Written In Dejection
- The moon like a flower
- In heaven's high bower,
- With silent delight,
- Sits and smiles on the night.
A marvellous stillness pervaded the world, and the stars, together with the serenity of their rays, seemed to shed upon the earth the assurance of everlasting security. The young moon recurved, and shining low in the west, was like a slender shaving thrown up from a bar of gold, and the Arabian Sea, smooth and cool to the eye like a sheet of ice, extended its perfect level to the perfect circle of a dark horizon.
- O full-orb'd moon, did but thy rays
- Their last upon mine anguish gaze!
- Beside this desk, at dead of night,
- Oft have I watched to hail thy light:
- Then, pensive friend! o'er book and scroll,
- With soothing power, thy radiance stole!
- In thy dear light, ah, might I climb,
- Freely, some mountain height sublime,
- Round mountain caves with spirits ride,
- In thy mild haze o'er meadows glide,
- And, purged from knowledge-fumes, renew
- My spirit, in thy healing dew!
Full moon! There it was, peeping over the tops of the lower firs that edged the park, and a silvery haze filled the terrace, the clumps of trees, the entire landscape as far as the eye could see, and the haze blurred softly into the distance like quivering waters.
As the moon came up behind the hill it shone through the openwork, casting shadows on the ground like black-velvet embroidery.
The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.
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