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.
Christus:  The Golden Legend, Pt.  VI.  H.W.  LONGFELLOW.

  How like a queen comes forth the lonely Moon
  From the slow opening curtains of the clouds;
  Walking in beauty to her midnight throne!
Diana.  G. CROLY.

The Moon arose:  she shone upon the lake,
Which lay one smooth expanse of silver light;
She shone upon the hills and rocks, and cast
Upon their hollows and their hidden glens
A blacker depth of shade.
Madoc, Pt.  II.  R. SOUTHEY.

                            No rest—­no dark. 
  Hour after hour that passionless bright face
  Climbs up the desolate blue.
Moon-struck.  D.M.  MULOCK CRAIK.

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?
Ode to the Moon.  T. HOOD.

  And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
  All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
  Which softened down the hoar austerity
  Of rugged desolation, and filled up,
  As ’t were anew, the gaps of centuries,
  Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
  And making that which was not, till the place
  Became religion, and the heart ran o’er
  With silent worship of the great of old!—­
  The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
  Our spirits from their urns.
Manfred, Act iii. Sc. 4 (The Coliseum).  LORD BYRON.

When the moon shone, we did not see the candle;
So doth the greater glory dim the less.
Merchant of Venice, Act v.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

The moon looks
On many brooks,
“The brook can see no moon but this.”
While gazing on the moon’s light.  T. MOORE.

I see them on their winding way. 
Above their ranks the moonbeams play.

* * * * *

And waving arms and banners bright
Are glancing in the mellow light.
Lines written to a March.  BISHOP R. HEBER.

The devil’s in the moon for mischief; they
Who called her chaste, methinks, began too soon
Their nomenclature; there is not a day,
The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
Sees half the business in a wicked way. 
On which three single hours of moonshine smile—­
And then she looks so modest all the while!
Don Juan.  Canto I.  LORD BYRON.

                           Faery elves,
  Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side,
  Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,
  Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon
  Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth
  Wheels her pale course.
Paradise Lost, Bk.  I.  MILTON.