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.