He who would see old Hoghton right Must view it by the pale moonlight.

Small circles glittering idly in the moon,/ Until they melted all into one track/ Of sparkling light.

On the road, the lonely road, Under the cold, white moon; Under the rugged trees he strode, Whistled and shifted his heavy load-- Whistled a foolish tune.

The moon is a silver pin-head vast, That holds the heaven's tent-hangings fast.

Reach for the moon, because if you don't make it you'll land among the stars.

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.