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.