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.
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,
Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunters never climbed—secure from
dread?
The moon, the moon, so silver and cold,
Her fickle temper has oft been told,
Now shady—now bright and sunny—
But of all the lunar things that change,
The one that shows most fickle and strange,
And takes the most eccentric range,
Is the moon—so called—of honey!
Hood—Miss KUmansegg. Her Honeymoon.
The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk
meadows,
Far west, among those flowers of the shadows,
The thin, clear crescent lustrous over her,
Made Ruth raise question, looking through the
bars
Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what
comer
Unto the harvest of the eternal summer,
Had flung his golden hook down on the field of
stars.
Victor Hugo—Boaz Asleep.
Such a slender moon, going up and up,
Waxing so fast from night to night,
And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright,
Fated, methougbt, to round as to a golden cup,
And hold to my two lips life's best of wine.
Jean Inqelow—Songs of the Night Watches.
The First Watch. Pt. II.
The moon looks upon many night flowers; the
night flowers see but one moon.
Sib William Jones.
| seealso = (See also Moore)
| topic = Moon
| page = 526
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver car,
State in wonted manner keep.
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess, excellently bright!
Ben Jonson—Hymn. To Cynthia.
The moon put forth a little diamond peak
No bigger than an unobserved star,
Or tiny point of fairy cimetar.
Keats—Endymion. Bk. IV. L. 499.
See yonder fire! It is the moon
Slow rising o'er the eastern hill.
It glimmers on the forest tips,
And through the dewy foliage drips
In little rivulets of light,
And makes the heart in love with night.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Chrisius. The Golden Legend.
Pt.VI. L. 462.
It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests.
The dews of summer night did fall;
The moon (sweet regent of the sky)
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.
Wm. J. Mickle—Cumnor Hall. .(Authorship
of Cumnor Hall claimed for Jean Adam.
Conceded generally to Mickle.)
| seealso = (See also Dabwin)
| topic = Moon
| page = 526
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Let the air strike our tune,
Whilst we show reverence to yond peeping moon.
| author = Thomas Middleton
| work = The Witch. Act V. Sc.
2.
UnmufHe, ye faint stars; and thou fair Moon,
That wont'st to love the traveller's benison,
Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud,
And disinherit Chaos.
| author = Milton
| work = Corpus. L. 331.
- * * now glow'd the firmament
With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led
The starry host rode brightest, till the Moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.
The moon looks
On many brooks,
The brook can see no moon but this.
Moore—Irish Melodies. While Gazing on the
Moon's Light.
| seealso = (See also Jones)
| topic = Moon
| page = 526
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>He should, as he list, be able to prove the moon
made of grene cheese.
Sir Thomas More—English Works. P. 256.
Same phrase in Blackloch—Hatchet of Heresies. (1565) Rabelais. Bk. I. Ch. XI.
Jack Jugler in Dodslet's Old Plays. Ed.
by Hazlttt. Vol. n.
| seealso = (See also Burton)
Hail, pallid crescent, hail!
Let me look on thee where thou sitt'st for aye
Like memory—ghastly in the glare of day,
But in the evening, light.
D. M. Mulock—The Moon in the Morning.
No rest—no dark.
Hour after hour that passionless bright face
Climbs up the desolate blue.
D. M. Mulock—MoonrStruck.
