Fair as the light on fire-tipt hills...

Fair as the light on fire-tipt hills,

From out her hollow hand she spills

The pale and powdery moonbeams, sifting

O'er sleeping farms and the winking rills.

The silvered leaves smile in their sleep;

Headlands their hoary watches keep;

The glimmering ships the moonglade furrow —

The path where beauty fore-walks the deep.

And now the powdery beam is thrown

On marguerite and pearl moonstone,

On fluffy bird with wing aweary,—

Soft, dreaming child!‘ tis her silver blown.